With quiet resignation, the nurse writes my weight in my chart and tells me I can step off the scale. “All right, it’s over,” she says with a voice far sharper than the situation merits. Whatever. If weighing in is such a treat, why don’t we put you and your childbearing hips up here, lady?
The nurse leads me back to the exam room, and as soon as I sit down, I whip out my bottle of hand sanitizer. When I worked for the HMO, I was in and out of doctors’ offices all day long. Not coincidentally, I was always sick from touching germy doorknobs. I’ve since become completely OCD, and this is the fourth time the Purell has been out of my purse since I’ve been here.
Nurse Big Hips instructs me to sit on the paper-covered table, and she takes my blood pressure, only the cuff feels a whole lot tighter than usual. Shortly thereafter, a thermometer is jammed in my mouth and I correctly guess that my temperature is 98.4.49
Last time I was here, there was a question about my blood pressure. I’d attributed the inflated numbers to my having run for the bus, and I would have thought nothing more of it, but for the past month, I’ve noticed an odd tingling/numbness in my arms. Yesterday after my initial bout of pain, they still felt weird after I had aspirin and antacid, so the doctor insisted I come in.
After Nurse Booty leaves the exam room, I seek out the hand sanitizer again to rub the area where the BP cuff was because what if the patient before me had tuberculosis or chlamydia? I dig around in my glorious new handbag for the bottle.
Okay. You caught me.
I admit it.
I bought a new purse with my royalties, too.
Sure, said royalties came from the book I wrote about spending all my money on designer bags and then going broke, but the irony isn’t lost on me, and I promise I learned my lesson.50Plus, it’s the first new purse I’ve gotten in about five years, which anyone would agree is totally reasonable, especially since it isn’t Prada.
I love this bag so much, I promise to carry it every day until it completely disintegrates. It’s a large brown and tan satchel with glossy leather handles and a leather bottom, and it’s got tassels and some random equestrian-looking hardware on it. I bought it specifically because it’s large enough to comfortably carry a variety of items—restaurant doggie bags, books, Fletch’s BlackBerry, etc.
I’ve never had such a big bag, so I’m totally taking advantage of it. This puppy is full. I can even carry a bottle of wine in it, though I’d caution anyone else before doing so. A week ago Fletch and I attended his company’s holiday party, which was kind of weird because everyone he works with is so short. When we sailed in, I swear we were a head taller than anyone else there.51Anyway, I had a good Cabernet tucked away to take to another fete later that night, and the weight of it turned my lovely handbag into a military-grade battering ram . . . which I learned only after accidentally nailing the dour company president in the crotch.
Jen’s Life Lesson #8897: Making a “hitting someone’s Yule log at the Christmas party” joke totally is funny. It’s not my fault none of the wee folk in his company have a sense of humor.
After cleaning my hands again, I pull out my book and begin to read, having learned the hard way that the doctor’s computer cannot be used to access my Gmail. In my defense, they shouldn’t have left me bored and shivering shirtless on a cold metal table for half an hour that one time.
When Dr. Awesome enters, I tell her all about my arm pains. After a few questions and possibly some whining on my part, she rules out cardiac infarctions and theorizes that the numbness and tingling are much more likely due to carpal tunnel syndrome or pinched nerves in my elbows.
Oh. Well . . . good.
The doctor begins to narrow down potential causes. “Have you had any changes in your activities in the last month, like maybe taking up tennis?”
“I would never chase balls,” I say solemnly, in my nod to all things Cher Horowitz.52“I have been reading a lot of In-Style in the bathtub, though. It’s their holiday issue, so it’s pretty thick. Do you think that’s the problem? I could switch to a lighter magazine.”
With a quick frown, she continues. “How much time do you spend on the computer?”
“Hmm . . . ,” I say, mulling over the question. The honest answer is, I cruise the Internet almost every waking moment because the world is anxiously awaiting my expert opinion on all things Tori Spelling and it would be selfish of me not to share it. Oh, that is, except when I’m busy watching TiVo’d episodes of The Real World: Denver. And by the way? All the snow dumped on Colorado recently? That was totally God’s way of punishing them for this season’s utterly contemptible cast.
“I’d say maybe an hour or so.”
The interrogation continues, and the doctor pokes, prods, and manipulates my limbs and soon determines the problem. Apparently I bend my arms too much, and to make them stop tingling, I have to remember to straighten them out more often. Dr. Awesome suggests I get wrist guards and also wrap my elbows in Ace bandages, inserting a pen or a ruler as a brace so I’m not tempted to crook them unnecessarily.
Yes.
This is officially the dumbest reason I have ever sought medical treatment, thus displacing the time the squirrel bit me. Fortunately, I finally convinced her to prescribe me some Ambien to help me sleep, so I feel as though I’ve accomplished something.
The trade-off is that Dr. Awesome wants to revisit the whole blood pressure business, and she orders a battery of tests. First up? Blood work!
Jen’s Life Lessons #5644-5647: (5644) Those who think I’m a baby about being weighed have obviously never tried to extract any of my fluids; (5645) if Nurse Badonkadonk thought she disliked me before, she had another thing coming; (5646) I’m fat everywhere except my veins; and (5647) snappy retorts in the manner of “Heh; this is why I’m not a heroin addict!” only serve to prompt more needle-based digging in both my arms. Eventually the nurse has to tap a vein in my hand, ignoring my suggestion that perhaps my blood would rather just stay inside me, where it belongs.
Now I’m off to another room for an echocardiogram. Dr. Awesome promises my heart is fine and says this test is just a precaution. I’ve had one of these before, so I’m not as much of a nancy pants about it. Nothing about it is painful, except the thought of someone seeing me n-a-k-e-d. As I strip from the waist up, I examine the computer system in here. There’s a small webcam on top of the monitor, and according to the screen saver, it’s used for facial recognition log-in. So cutting-edge! Unfortunately the camera broadcasts whatever it sees onto the screen, and I accidentally turn in front of it while struggling to get out of my bra. I’m treated to an extreme close-up of my own bare rack, and the first thought in my head is Worst. Porno. Ever.
I put on the flimsy cover-up and engage in more hand cleaning. This time I use the office’s scrub sink, finishing with a couple of generous squirts of their sanitizer. When the nurse returns, she covers me with a bunch of stickers and attaches electrodes all over my arms and chest, including way underneath my left b-o-o-b and down my legs. I laugh about being glad I shaved and she ignores me. Ugh. One paper gown later and I’m suddenly Henny Youngman. I’m embarrassed for me. No wonder she’s not a fan.
The test is over quickly, and before the nurse leaves, she tells me that there are ten sticky electrodes on me and I can peel them off myself. I search and search but can find only nine. The last one’s probably stuck behind an errant b-r-e-a-s-t. Yeah, really looking forward to that twisted little Easter egg hunt when I get home.
Now I have to go next door to the radiology center for chest X-rays. Again I’m required to strip to the waist. Aarrggh. Aren’t they using, like, lasers or something? What’s the difference between seeing through my polo shirt and sensible bra and seeing through a gown of the same thickness? As long as they note that the little alligator-shaped blob over my heart is a logo and not a tumor, what’s the big deal?
My argument falls on deaf ears. The technician excuses herself while I disrobe again, and when I’m done, I lie on the
big table in front of a large donut-y tube with my book until she returns.
"Ma’am? This is a chest X-ray. You have to stand over there,” she says. “And naked from the waist up means you have to remove your pearls.”
Pfft. Not in my world, lady.
I comply and hold as still as I can while she snaps images from behind the big shield. As I hug the chilly metal plate, it strikes me that this is yet another wake-up call. I hate anything vaguely medical, and everything I’m doing today has been garden-variety and relatively noninvasive. What if I really were having a heart attack yesterday and not just an adverse reaction to compulsively looking at cat pictures online?
What if my bad, lazy habits cause heart disease or a stroke? How will I handle going through the related (and braless) medical procedures? Shoot, I’m afraid of getting BriteSmile and Botox—there’s no way I’ll have the fortitude to deal with something real like a stroke or cancer. Although I like to think of myself as tough, my actions today speak volumes. There’s a world of difference between shouting at people in traffic and facing a wasting disease with dignity and maturity. I mean, I lost my shit over standing on a scale. What if something were really wrong?
When we’re done and I’m dressed and sanitized again, I keep replaying the day’s unpleasantness while I head to my car. I’ve lacked the motivation to do something about my weight because I’ve been convinced I both look and feel good.
I’m starting to wonder if I’m not operating on a false premise here. Honestly, maybe I don’t feel all that great. I get winded carrying laundry up from the basement. And I sort of don’t like bending because it makes my pulse throb. Walking from the parking lot to the store shouldn’t be a challenge, right?
Thoughts racing, I unlock the car and climb in. I suspect if I were living a life where I truly felt good, the possibility of a heart attack wouldn’t have crossed my mind yesterday.
But it did.
Shit, I can’t have a heart attack. Heart attacks happen to old people. And how can I be old—I’m still breaking out on my chin, for Christ’s sake. Yeah, I’m going to be forty, but forty is the new thirty! Forty should be about buying a house and a snappy new car, not about interviewing private nurses and buying hospital beds.
This is all wrong. How did I even get here?
I place my hand on the gearshift and notice a small black smudge near my knuckle. I rub it, but it doesn’t go away. I’m so distracted by the swirling vortex of thoughts, I lick the offending spot to remove it.
Uh-oh. That’s going to cost me. Ten bucks says I’m about to come down with a serious case of Hand-Lick Fever. Outstanding. Can’t wait to hear what Dr. Awesome has to say about this bit of stupidity, as I’m sure I’ll be back with flulike symptoms in the next week. I artfully dodged her on my way out of the office, so I spared myself the tail end of the Why You Should Be Less Fat Lecture, Part Infinity . . . at least this time.
As I pull into the garage, I lift my gigantic handbag out of the car and feel the same tingling numbness in my arm. I swap the bag over to the other side and the same thing happens. I calculate and realize I’ve been carrying this heavy-ass bag exactly as long as I’ve had the arm pain.
Today just keeps getting better and better!
After I recover from my bout of the flu, I decide I prefer being healthy and feeling good, if only because I’m not spending my disposable income on medical supplies. This time it was just Kleenex and Vicks VapoRub, but who knows the expenses heart problems entail?
Changes must be made.
But the only way I’m going to be able to enable change is if I get a real measure of where I’m starting. In my head I know how much I weigh, but I should probably hop on the scale to confirm it.
Clad in only my underwear, I loom in front of my scale for fifteen minutes. Each time I place a toe on it, my whole foot jerks back as though the scale’s on fire.
Try as I might, I can’t bring myself to stand on it.
Shit.
I have to weigh myself to get a baseline measurement so I can track my progress . . . or do I?
The bathroom is directly off the room I use for my home office, and when I glance at my desk, I notice my digital camera. I quickly put on a pair of Lycra workout pants and sports bra and yank my hair out of its ponytail. I apply a sparkly coat of lip gloss, contour my cheeks with a dark blush, and don my favorite string of pearls because I’m going to document my weight loss photographically! This is genius, especially with the advent of digital cameras, because it means no pockmarked teenager can make fun of me from the confines of his or her photo-developing booth. And how great will it be to arrange all the pictures together once I’m done, like a flip-book? I’ll call it The Incredible Shrinking Jen!
To begin, I have to figure out where I should stand and how to work the camera’s timer, but before I do I take a long, hard look at myself in the mirror.
I look . . . nice.
My teeth are superwhite,53my hair is bouncy, and if I saw me on the street, I’d totally think I was cute. If I were single, guys would want to date me because I wouldn’t be the kind of pain in the ass who orders the lobster, takes a bite, and declares herself full. Clean-plate club, baby!
Sure, there are a couple little lines around my eyes, but they’re small and positioned in such a way that when I smile, they enhance my grin rather than detract from it. Moving down, I can’t see the collarbones I worried so much about in my composite photo anymore, but at this point I imagine everyone ’s tired of looking at starving starlets’ clavicles on the cover of Us Weekly, so this is no great loss.54
My shoulders are broad, and I look like someone who doesn’t need the bag boy’s assistance getting her groceries to the car, thank you very much, even if my arms aren’t as round as I’d like. My chest is well proportioned to my frame, and I imagine with a few less pounds and the right corset, I could dress up as the St. Pauli Girl next Halloween. (That is, if I didn’t detest costumes.) And sure, gravity’s been a bitch, but that’s why I invest in good bras.
Then there’s my stomach, where much of my weight is carried. I should hate it, but it’s smooth and brown and solid, kind of like . . . a perfectly baked loaf of bread. And who hates bread? Certainly not me! Yeah, my midriff is fat, but it’s not blobby, dimpled, rippling fat. It’s . . . pretty fat, if that’s possible.
I continue my inspection, and I get to my hips and butt. I’m not a fan of my new ass-teau, but it’s behind me, so it’s not like I have to look at it all day, and besides, that’s why God invented girdles. Plus, it’s proportionate to the rest of my body, which I much prefer to being pear-shaped. Everyone likes apples more than pears.
I take in my legs next. They are, in a word, powerful. My father was thisclose to being a professional football player, and I’ve inherited his fantastic legs. They’ve never been slender or dainty; rather, they’re incredibly well muscled. Sure, once you get north of my knees they’re squashy, but my calves look strong enough to win any ass-kicking contest.
Smiling at my reflection, I give my hair another good shake before placing the camera on my makeup table. I set it and pose in front of the chocolate brown doors to my bedroom closet. Using my best posture, I suck in my gut and tilt my head slightly down and to the side in order to capture the best light. I hold the pose for another ten seconds until I see the flash go off.
I check the camera’s display, but it’s so small and blurry, I can’t see anything. However, if my initial assessment is on target, I bet I look pretty good. Shoot; maybe I should consider plus-sized modeling. After all, I’ve got the clichéd such-a -pretty-face—maybe I could even make a few bucks? Or possibly get free clothes? Or handbags!
Sometimes they have famous plus models visit the girls on America’s Next Top Model. How cool would that be? I love both Mr. Jay and Miss J., and Tyra Banks would so want to be my best friend, even if I will have to break it to her that she is not the new Oprah. But friends are obligated to tell each other the truth, right? We could dri
nk margaritas together and eat ribs and then drop by Miss Janice Dickinson’s house, where the fun would really begin!
Anxious to begin my television career, I rush back into my office to download the photo. I can barely sit still while my computer takes its sweet time. Come on; come on!
After what feels like hours, the image appears on my monitor. It’s showtime!
And . . . now all I want to know is this: how the fuck did Jabba the Hutt get into my bedroom, and why is he wearing my pearls?
So now I don’t feel good or look good.
Now what?
The last time I lost any significant weight was the spring of 2000. Inspired by all the gorgeous tulips blooming in the center of Michigan Avenue, I decided I wanted a big-city wedding the next year, and Fletch and I began to make plans.55At the time, everyone was doing Atkins, evidenced by all the baggies of cheese and turkey in my office’s kitchen and the screaming when a bread basket was proffered during corporate lunches. I tried it, too, and the weight simply fell off. I loved never feeling hungry but found myself dying for stuff like grape juice and would have committed murder for five minutes alone inside a Krispy Kreme store. But I kept up the carb-free regimen until I bought a book on wedding planning, realized that with my demanding job I didn’t have the bandwidth to coordinate caterers and florists and photographers and the like, and tabled both the wedding and the diet. Three Croissan’wiches later, the weight came back. And it’s been here ever since.
In terms of dieting, Atkins was the least offensive, and it was fun to gobble down a juicy steak while gloating about how much thinner I already felt. I bet if I kick-start my weight-loss quest by going low carb, I’ll have some initial victories on the scale that I can use to segue into a healthier long-term way of eating!
Such a pretty fat: one narcissist's quest to discover if her life makes her ass look big Page 6