That’s Weird

So I had my annual a couple weeks ago. I apologize to the men out there reading this (the four of them … who, by the way, I love and adore). No worries, though, I’m not gonna go into any gory details! (although I’m kind of half tempted now 🙂 ) But, anyway, I had an interesting interaction with my doctor. And by interesting, I mean viciously depressing.

Her: “Wow! You look really good.”

Me: “Thanks!”

Her: “I mean you look thin.”

Me: (blushing) “Well, yes I have been losing some weight. Thanks!”

Her confused expression was making me a little wary, but I was so caught in the throes of a beautiful compliment that I didn’t see this coming.

Her: “No, what I mean is that you don’t look like the weight listed here. You’ve actually put on 12 pounds since last year.”

Me: “I’m sorry, what?!”

It kind of all goes black from there.

Honestly, though, why in god’s name would she keep that conversation going. Who gives a rat’s ass if I don’t “look” my weight?! Does that have anything to do with my reproductive health?? Was she worried I was carrying around a small kettle bell in my uterus? Secretly hiding it there to … what? … work on my kegels?

Is this like the new compliment/insult? I mean, it makes sense in regards to age (i.e. You’re 38?? You look like you’re about 22!! … fyi, those words have never been spoken to me). And that reminds me, I need to contact Taylor Swift and let her know that I’m most definitely NOT feeling 22. I’m feeling 62 … with a side of 80. (well, she ASKED!)

But I digress. Here’s what I really have to say …

I hate weight. I want weight to die a fiery death in the bowels of hell. I want it to be tortured with a burning hot poker to the brain. And then shot … repeatedly.

Yeah. It’s that kind of morning.

fear-of-the-scale

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