Yesterday, I went into our family doctor to get a physical. Jonathon and I would like to have life insurance, something we’ve never had but would like to as a “just in case” type of deal. Our new insurance company wants proof that we are insurable and not sucking cancer sticks or living on lard.
Generally, I don’t like going to the doctor. I’m not as bad as most men I know who only go if they’re bleeding out their eyeballs, but I haven’t always found doctors to be super helpful or knowledgeable. I fired Ruby’s first obstetrician. Does that give you a clue? He kept nattering on about how I was a high-risk pregnancy since I was, ahem, middle-aged.
“Twenty percent of all pregnancies end in a miscarriage”, he intoned more than once. Hence the 3 blood tests he made me take to confirm my unlikely pregnancy. Apparently, I was some kind of medical miracle, knocked-up without his permission and despite low hormone levels. I started to look like an addict, sneaking back into work from my lunch hour, hiding my beat-up, newly bandaged arm under a sweater. Sigh.
So with these kind of flashbacks, I got on the scale. I swiftly recalled weighing in each visit when I was pregant…and gained 60 pounds over the 9-month run. Goody! More punishment. I tried not to look at the digital readout, right under my nose. I have long thought weighing in kilograms was much more mysterious and frankly, kinder. I remember reading an interview with the marvelous Audrey Tautou of “Amelie” and “DaVinci Code” fame saying she never weighed more than 48-50 kilograms. Or even in the old English measurement of stones: “I weigh approximately 8 stones”. See, better already, right? More connected to nature or something.
The scale number came up in kilograms first, then instantly converted to pounds.
And that’s where it hit me. Wait just a minute! My scale, the digital mini supposed truth-teller in our bathroom, is wrong. Standing there, fully clothed sans shoes and sweater, the clinic’s scale said I weighed about what I weighed that morning at home – minus clothes. I figure with jeans, shirt and foundation garments (yes, I *do* wear them; blame Bethany for drumming that into me), it adds up to around 3 lbs.
Say what? All this time, I’ve been beating myself up about a couple of pounds and they were never there?! I’ve been at my goal weight, or real close to it, for a very, very long time.
I should have gone to the doctor sooner.