Being a fat woman, I was forced to change medications by the doctor. He should have the standard statement printed out. "You need to loose weight and exercise more." Okay. Heard that the last time. If I knew the magic formula for losing weight and exercising more I would be a billionaire. I'd make Richard Simmons look like a piker.
There is no magic formula. You just have to make yourself do it. Apparently I can make myself exercise and do. But eating, well, that's another problem. Incidentally, I'm on day 3 of DIET NO. 1, and have lost three pounds. So there. Take that, skinny people. Power to the FAT WOMEN everywhere.
Anyway, back to the story. The doctor told me I have to change my meds. So I did. Then I gained fifteen pounds. Apparently the meds that I had been previously taking helped my digestive system a little too much. So off I went and took the new stuff. "Yippee," I said sarcastically. I could choose between being constantly diarrheic and keeping the weight off, or putting on fifteen pounds and being constipated. Wow. What a choice. So now fiber is my best friend. Yea, chewable pills.
The doctor sez check your blood work in 3 months and see how you're doing. I said, "Well, great, I love being hosed by the medical insurance, so just peachy." (Referring to the bill I got from the last blood work I had done, which i took to mean that the insurance company was washing its hands of me. But this is a whole 'nother story.) Like a good girl, I waited 3 months and made my appointment.
Another note. I know that the doctor's office has both fat and skinny women working there, because I've seen them. In fact, one of the doctors in the practice is a portly gentleman and he must catch hell from those skinny little twits upon occasion. I do not hold that against them, because I try very hard not to be fat biased. (Go FAT WOMEN, everywhere!) However, and it's a BIG FAT WHOPPING HOWEVER!!!!!! when I get on the phone with the receptionist and tell her that I need to make a blood work appointment because the Doctor has thus mandated it and God knows the Doctor is the King of the World, and she tells me 9:40 AM on such and such date, then follows it with, "Are you sure you can do that?" in a voice laden with sarcasm, it's not a good thing. (RUN ON sentence alert.) I think I can say that I have self-control issues with food. I love to eat. But I am capable of fasting for twelve hours, BITCH.
And here comes another HOWEVER!!!! However, (there it is) when I went to the doctor's office and I was mildly cranky, mostly from missing my caffeine fix and not from missing food, there was a woman there who was about a thousand times worse than I am. When I drove up I managed to get in ahead of her and behind me I could hear her saying she had an appointment for blood work at 9:20 am. Well, here's the thing, she was late, and I was early by five minutes. I got into the little, minuscule waiting room with her. Her daughter joins her. While I'm messing with my phone, she asks me if I have an appointment. Of course, I don't mind talking to people at the doctor's office, except maybe to the receptionist and sometimes to the doctor when he's lecturing me about not eating right. (I eat right. I eat too much right.) So I tell her.
Her: Well, I guess we're both going to be late then.
Me, in a mistaken attempt at humor (Warning, warning, witty morning humor and ornery people do not mix): Well, then I'm not happy about missing my cup of tea this morning.
Her: And I want my fucking coffee. And my fucking cigarette. And to be seen by the fucking lab techs on fucking time.
Her daughter (sotto voce): She has another fasting appointment after this one.
Me, not completely stupid and wondering if it was too late to put on a bullet-proofed vest: Wow. That's a lot of fasting.
Her: You're damn tooting. Hey, that guy came in after us. HEY, YOU IN THE LAB, THERE'S APPOINTMENTS WAITING HERE! (This was yelled in a pretty loud tone across a space of about six feet, so I think they heard her.)
The lab techs: Yes, Ma'am. We're working as fast as we can.
Me: I'll just let you go first, huh?
Her: I'm going to the front to complain.
Her daughter, after her mother was gone: She really misses her coffee and cigs.
Me: Yeah, well. (I didn't have a witty response so I settled for a silent, 'Duh? Don't you have a cage for her?')
Her, dragging a receptionist with her by the arm: I settled their little fucking hashes.
Me, on the inside: Please let them call her first. I think she'll take out my throat if they don't.
Then, guess what happens. One of the doctors brings a patient back and he gets seen by the lab techs before us. I swear the woman's vein on her forehead popped out and throbbed. If I had a ruler I could have measured it because it was popping out so far. Then her daughter scooted over about two chairs and I was looking for the exit. I thought since I had been unfortunate enough to get into the clinic's doors about thirty seconds ahead of her that they would call me next and the woman would go ballistic.
Don't get me wrong. I wanted the lab techs to get it over as much as the other woman did, but I wasn't in mortal danger of losing my ever-freaking mind because their system wasn't exactly state of the art. As soon as she yelled at the techs, I figured they wouldn't be seeing her until after lunch time, if she was lucky. And if we weren't lucky I was watching her hands to make sure she wasn't reaching for the little gun she brought with her. I was hauling ass for the nearest exit in a speed that is little expected from a woman of my stature. ("Did you see that?" "What?" "That fat woman could have won an Olympic medal?" "What for?" "The Fastest Fat Woman Running From a Tobacco/Caffeine Deprived Maniac Event, for goodness sake. Did you hear some popping noises?")
Anyway, for the sake of all mankind and the clinic in particular, the woman was called first. After all of that, it was pretty anticlimactic.