On Friday I did one of those trips to the doctor where you have a list of minor things, like new prescriptions etc, because you haven't been in so long. Anyway, after my two daughters had their flu vaccinations (and somehow I managed to get one too - although that quite definitely wasn't on the list!), they shuffled off to dull the pain with ten dollars worth of Gloria Jeans Tim Tam iced chocolate with whipped cream. I remained behind to finish the appointment off by requesting the odd scripts etc. Anyway, just as I was humming happily (stoically ignoring the throbbing in my arm), the doctor glanced across from her computer, gave me a brisk once-over and announced, rather curtly, that I had to lose weight.
Well, I have to tell you, I was a trifle stunned. So stunned in fact that I stopped mid-hum and stared at her with my mouth open, most probably just giving her the impression that I was hungry. Which may also explain why she then spent several minutes demonstrating correct meal portions. As a final humiliation, she asked me my weight twice and then, with a rather disbelieving look on her face, ushered me over to the scales to check for herself (I was right). After checking my height as well, she did some calculations on her computer and announced I should be around 65 kilos.
Now this is patently ridiculous. I come from a long line of Austrian shape-changers who start off quite slim but sometime after their fortieth birthdays, metamorphis into short, plump women. It's tradition. I have a short, plump mother, three short, plump aunts, and several short, plump sisters. 65 kilos just ain't going to happen, not without being accompanied by some type of terminal illness and I think that's a tad extreme.
I tried to explain this to the doctor but she (who wasn't exactly Twiggy herself) just started going through the meal portion routine again. Perhaps she thought I was slow as well as fat. And since when did doctors get so intrusive? I mean, it's not like I look like a contestant for The Biggest Loser or anything. I'm a size 14 female who's pushing fifty. Give me a damn break. Aren't we supposed to have a little padding around the middle at this age?
So, after a visit for two prescriptions, neither of which had anything to do with (a) the flu, or (b) weight, I left with a very sore arm and severe depression (also not covered by the scripts). Now the way I see it I have several choices. I can:
(1) starve myself down to 65 kilos,
(2) somehow grow a few inches so that the extra weight is more evenly distributed, or
(3) change doctors.
After giving it some thought, I'm going with option number three.