Last week I visited the Good Doctor's office for the required third time in three months. Mind you, I haven't actually seen the Good Doctor since our initial visit. And a dollar to a donut (mmmm, donuts!) I won't see him again until right before he's poking holes in my tool shed and putting a C-clamp around my gullet.
This visit was a clear example of how a small bit of sand in the Vaseline can bring the Good Doctor's Amazing Gut Busting Machine to a grinding halt, or at least get it as backed up as a starving fat man after a cheese eating contest.
Upon arriving for my 9 a.m. appointment, the palatial lobby was already half-filled with the fat, many of which looked none too pleased. Seems if the the Good Doctor or any of his ducklings are running late, so is the rest of the rotund world.
After weighing in (gained 10 lbs., damn you Bacon Cheesy Potato Burrito!), I spent 45 minutes doing physical therapy. And when I say physical therapy, I mean doing 3 sets of 10 of the lightest weight possible on a circuit of high-tech workout equipment. What this was meant to accomplish I have no earthly idea. I guess it satisfies the "medically supervised physical therapy" portion of the War and Peace-like set of insurance requirements. So ... CHECK!
Back to the lobby, where the cup had now runneth over and spilleth out into the seats in the hall. Someone must of woken up WAY late. Now it was my turn to wait, but I was assured that the nutritionist was almost done with her current consultation and would be with me shortly.
SIDE NOTE: In previous posts I noted that someone in the Good Doctor's office must have a wet spot for Ashton Kutcher, given that Guess Who? and What Happens in Vegas were playing on the waiting room big screen. Mr. Kutcher's stalker must have been off (or the one running late!) for this visit, because instead of another one of Ashton's fine cinematic performances, the masses were treated to both Hotel for Dogs AND Marley and Me. Guess it was the dog lover's turn to pick. As far as I know, Ashton hasn't starred opposite a canine, but he was the voice of Elliot the mule deer in Open Season. Would that count?
So I sat, waited and watched, and here's what I learned: fat people don't like to just sit around, which given my own personal experience as a fat person, is quite the juxtaposition, ya' know? I don't know if packing on the pounds makes you more prone to blow a gasket or throw a clot, but blood was boiling and steam was escaping from ears all around.
Luckily I was called back before getting caught up in any kind of super-sized smackdown. And for what? The nutritionist, who was triple booked because of her looming vacation, didn't actually have time to go over my weekly food logs (which worked out fine for me since I forgot them and would have to fax them in the next day) and asked that I come back for my final nutritional evaluation once she returns from a week at the beach.
I had to wait 35 minutes for that? Hello!??? Mad fat person about to pop a cork here!!!!!
Oh well, as the old saying goes, when you jump through one hoop, another springs up in front of your tired fatass to jump through. Or something like that.
Next up this week: Cardio stress test. Walk on a treadmill and take solace in the fact that there will be trained medical professionals to land on if and when I pass out from exhaustion.
Next up next week: Previously alluded to final nutritional evaluation. She better have some damn bikini pictures to show me from that vacation!
I'm out.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
Insane in the Brain ... Or Not
Current weight: 320 lbs.
Current mental status: Perfectly sane, apparently.
I had my final visit with the Good Doctor this week, but I'm still mulling over the funniness in my surgically repaired melon, so more on that later.
However, I did visit the head doctor today (and not in a good way). That is, the psychiatrist, for my psych evaluation. Seems you to have to be of sound mind before having a sound and bariaticly toned body.
Going into this, my friend Marc (name again cleverly disguised to protect his identity) told me, "Stay on script. Don't venture into that nightmare past of yours. Don't tell her any of your after 10 p.m. stories. Stay on topic!"
SIDE NOTE NO.1: I take an annual golf trip with three of my buddies. Through the 10-plus years of our trip, I've regaled them with tales of darkness from my childhood, escapades with the ladies, and general disturbing thoughts and opines. Some of these yarns were told at roulette tables or casino bars after I might have had a few too many watered-down cocktails, but some have been told at restaurants and bars while sitting amongst the fine people of the Mississippi Gulf Coast. All of them, though, have been meet with horrified response from those outside of our little quartet. So, the above mentioned Marc instituted the 10 p.m. rule, in that I can't tell any of said stories until well after the sun has gone down and those that might otherwise be offended have already shuffled off to the protective confines of their homes far out of ear's length. SUB-SIDE NOTE: I'm fairly confident, though, that Marc would say that there have been plenty of times that those out and about after 10 p.m. have still been offended.
Anyhoo, back to the head doctor. I did, in fact, stay on script and on topic, wandering astray briefly to touch on my previous, short-lived issues with emotional eating, which I can see might be of concern to a doctor evaluating someone wanting weight loss surgery. Likewise, apparently nothing on the 50 forms I had to fill out asking about my emotional well-being during the past two weeks must have raised any red flags.
And being that I'm writing this and have not been carted off to the loony bin (because I can only assume that they don't allow computer access at the funny farm), I passed with flying colors and have been declared mentally fit to deal with the emotional calisthenics that might accompany massive amounts of weight loss. So long as the co-pay check doesn't bounce. HA!
SIDE NOTE NO. 2: Just got off the phone with Marc, who says he finds the findings suspect and is going to launch an investigation into the credentials of the just visited head doctor. Ah, good times, Marc. Good times.
So the expansive set of hoops carefully but precariously set up before me to jump through have been reduced to a scant few. Only ones remaining are the cardio stress test hoop and the nutritional evaluation hoop, which I will posit on soon.
Word to your mother.
Current mental status: Perfectly sane, apparently.
I had my final visit with the Good Doctor this week, but I'm still mulling over the funniness in my surgically repaired melon, so more on that later.
However, I did visit the head doctor today (and not in a good way). That is, the psychiatrist, for my psych evaluation. Seems you to have to be of sound mind before having a sound and bariaticly toned body.
Going into this, my friend Marc (name again cleverly disguised to protect his identity) told me, "Stay on script. Don't venture into that nightmare past of yours. Don't tell her any of your after 10 p.m. stories. Stay on topic!"
SIDE NOTE NO.1: I take an annual golf trip with three of my buddies. Through the 10-plus years of our trip, I've regaled them with tales of darkness from my childhood, escapades with the ladies, and general disturbing thoughts and opines. Some of these yarns were told at roulette tables or casino bars after I might have had a few too many watered-down cocktails, but some have been told at restaurants and bars while sitting amongst the fine people of the Mississippi Gulf Coast. All of them, though, have been meet with horrified response from those outside of our little quartet. So, the above mentioned Marc instituted the 10 p.m. rule, in that I can't tell any of said stories until well after the sun has gone down and those that might otherwise be offended have already shuffled off to the protective confines of their homes far out of ear's length. SUB-SIDE NOTE: I'm fairly confident, though, that Marc would say that there have been plenty of times that those out and about after 10 p.m. have still been offended.
Anyhoo, back to the head doctor. I did, in fact, stay on script and on topic, wandering astray briefly to touch on my previous, short-lived issues with emotional eating, which I can see might be of concern to a doctor evaluating someone wanting weight loss surgery. Likewise, apparently nothing on the 50 forms I had to fill out asking about my emotional well-being during the past two weeks must have raised any red flags.
And being that I'm writing this and have not been carted off to the loony bin (because I can only assume that they don't allow computer access at the funny farm), I passed with flying colors and have been declared mentally fit to deal with the emotional calisthenics that might accompany massive amounts of weight loss. So long as the co-pay check doesn't bounce. HA!
SIDE NOTE NO. 2: Just got off the phone with Marc, who says he finds the findings suspect and is going to launch an investigation into the credentials of the just visited head doctor. Ah, good times, Marc. Good times.
So the expansive set of hoops carefully but precariously set up before me to jump through have been reduced to a scant few. Only ones remaining are the cardio stress test hoop and the nutritional evaluation hoop, which I will posit on soon.
Word to your mother.
Friday, July 24, 2009
And now for something completely different ...
On Wednesday night, our 5-year old took a flying leap off the back of the couch. Seems she was leaning over trying to grab the kitty's tail, and as she tells it, "kicked my leg over and went BAM!"
It was one of those moments when, since she's FIVE, you think you can turn your back for a few minutes. And of course, she knows better. She's been told on numerous occasions not to stand on the couch. Not to jump over the couch. Not to lean over the couch. But any of us with kids know how much of that stuff goes in one ear and out the other.
So, boom goes the 5 year old, up and over. All I saw was feet. Hardwoods, meet the right side of my daughter's face. The thwack and resulting ear-piercing scream were sickning. You would have thought that The Wiggles just spontaneously combusted right in front of her.
Good thing is, she's fine. BIG goose egg on her forehead. Right AND left eyes are swollen and are icky shades of black-blue-green. Like a bruise rainbow. She's had fun, though, milking it for extra treats and attention.
So why is it that I feel that everyone I encounter at the daycare is giving me the stink eye? You know, head slightly cocked, eyes a narrow slit, lips thin and tight. I tell the story. My daughter offers her take in great detail. Everyone laughs. Kids, they say. That kind of stuff just plain happens.
So again, why is it that I can't shake the feeling in my gut that people are judging me? Secretly wondering if I gave my daughter a swift backhand for spilling her milk. It's not an overwhelming feeling. I'm not franticly looking over each shoulder wondering when Child Protective Services is going to show up on my doorstep. But it gnaws a little. Sort of like when you have an early lunch and know you're aren't going to get to eat until after you get the kids to bed. It gnaws.
Truthfully, I understand that as a childcare worker, you almost have to react this way. I've known these people for more than three years now. They know I'm a good dad, and they know her mom is a good mom. But there are too many tales of good moms and dads gone bad, or teachers ignoring the signs and little ones then later end up even more bruised and beaten.
But what does that say about us as a society that, when it comes to our kids, we must assume guilt before innocence? I guess the answer is the same as above. Too many horrible stories of innocence lost at the hands of, unthinkably, their own mother or father.
But why do I feel that I have to justify, almost defend, what happened? I had a rough childhood and was exposed to domestic abuse, so I'm keenly aware of the impact that has on a child and a family. And I have never, and will never, lay a hand on either one of my girls in anger.
Maybe it's not the world at large judging me. Maybe I'm judging myself. Giving myself the stink eye, if that's possible. I did nothing wrong, save for turning my back for a minute or two. I should have been there. I should have stopped her from taking the big dive. I mean really, she looks like she walked straight into a Hank Aaron home run swing. Bless her little heart.
I know I shouldn't blame myself. But I do. And her angelic smile bracketed by two black eyes is a stark reminder that I won't always be there to protect my precious little girl.
Better to learn that now, I guess.
It was one of those moments when, since she's FIVE, you think you can turn your back for a few minutes. And of course, she knows better. She's been told on numerous occasions not to stand on the couch. Not to jump over the couch. Not to lean over the couch. But any of us with kids know how much of that stuff goes in one ear and out the other.
So, boom goes the 5 year old, up and over. All I saw was feet. Hardwoods, meet the right side of my daughter's face. The thwack and resulting ear-piercing scream were sickning. You would have thought that The Wiggles just spontaneously combusted right in front of her.
Good thing is, she's fine. BIG goose egg on her forehead. Right AND left eyes are swollen and are icky shades of black-blue-green. Like a bruise rainbow. She's had fun, though, milking it for extra treats and attention.
So why is it that I feel that everyone I encounter at the daycare is giving me the stink eye? You know, head slightly cocked, eyes a narrow slit, lips thin and tight. I tell the story. My daughter offers her take in great detail. Everyone laughs. Kids, they say. That kind of stuff just plain happens.
So again, why is it that I can't shake the feeling in my gut that people are judging me? Secretly wondering if I gave my daughter a swift backhand for spilling her milk. It's not an overwhelming feeling. I'm not franticly looking over each shoulder wondering when Child Protective Services is going to show up on my doorstep. But it gnaws a little. Sort of like when you have an early lunch and know you're aren't going to get to eat until after you get the kids to bed. It gnaws.
Truthfully, I understand that as a childcare worker, you almost have to react this way. I've known these people for more than three years now. They know I'm a good dad, and they know her mom is a good mom. But there are too many tales of good moms and dads gone bad, or teachers ignoring the signs and little ones then later end up even more bruised and beaten.
But what does that say about us as a society that, when it comes to our kids, we must assume guilt before innocence? I guess the answer is the same as above. Too many horrible stories of innocence lost at the hands of, unthinkably, their own mother or father.
But why do I feel that I have to justify, almost defend, what happened? I had a rough childhood and was exposed to domestic abuse, so I'm keenly aware of the impact that has on a child and a family. And I have never, and will never, lay a hand on either one of my girls in anger.
Maybe it's not the world at large judging me. Maybe I'm judging myself. Giving myself the stink eye, if that's possible. I did nothing wrong, save for turning my back for a minute or two. I should have been there. I should have stopped her from taking the big dive. I mean really, she looks like she walked straight into a Hank Aaron home run swing. Bless her little heart.
I know I shouldn't blame myself. But I do. And her angelic smile bracketed by two black eyes is a stark reminder that I won't always be there to protect my precious little girl.
Better to learn that now, I guess.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Ride 'em In, Count 'em Out
Current Wait: About 2 hours
Yes, I've been quite. Not much to write about.
And then came Saturday, the latest checkpoint in my quarter-year journey through the crocodile-infested waters of the Bermuda Insurance Triangle on my quest to be the winner of my own version of The Biggest Loser (insert hilarious comment here!).
Although, I actually think the EGD (esophagogastroduodenoscopy - say that five times fast!) procedure was required by the Good Doctor, not insurance.
Anywho, The Wife and I arrived at Forrest Park Medical Center at 8:30 a.m. after the Good Doctor's office called the night before and told me that my original appointment had been moved up an hour. Seems they were trying something different for this go-round of stomach peekaboos.
Since the procedure itself takes so little time (and they're right about that), they were stacking us hefties up in groups so that when a bed came open, the next available would be ready when called.
So I signed in, noticing that there were 12 names ahead of me that had not already been crossed off in yellow highlighter, and took a seat among the 30 some-odd other folks there for a gut check (hee!).
Just picture a herd of cattle, grazing among the comfy couches in the cold-as-hell granite lobby, one by one being herded into a stall to put our hoof prints on consent forms and such. Moo.
It was just over an hour before I got the prod pointed in my direction. That wasn't so bad, I thought. An hour's wait is better than usual. But then we were herded down the hall into ANOTHER holding pen, where the 30 some-odd people that were there before me were still, in fact, there before me. Moooooo.
Another hour-plus wait ensued. Finally we got the call, and the rest, quite honestly is a blur, except for the part where it took four different people to put an IV in my arm. I look like a dang junkie today with all the bruises and puncture marks. After that, they turned and burned and I was outta there by Noon.
Just got off the phone with the Good Doctor's office. Turns out I have a small hiatal hernia (look it up) that can be fixed at surgery time, as well as a 7 mm gastric ulcer, which barely registers on the gastric ulcer doorjam growth chart (read: small and not that big of a deal). Pathology reports are pending, but nothing out of the ordinary expected (of course, is anything out of the ordinary every really expected?).
So .. gut ... checked. Next up? Cardio stress test and a psyche evaluations (again with the hilarious comments!).
SIDE NOTE: The flat screen in the waiting room was parked on ESPN, which is odd since 90 percent of the herd was female. Not only were we treated to multiple up-to-the-minute reports on The British Open, we also got to enjoy an endless loop of commercials for Taco Bell's new Bacon Cheesy Potato burrito. 30 fat people in a waiting room who hadn't eaten solid food since lunch the day before. You do the math. Udderly cruel (again, hee!).
SIDE NOTE NO. 2: Crispy, flavorful bacon, warm nacho cheese sauce, golden fiesta potatoes and seasoned ground beef, topped off with more crispy, flavorful bacon. This bad boy is deee-lish! Had it for lunch this afternoon.
Yes, I've been quite. Not much to write about.
And then came Saturday, the latest checkpoint in my quarter-year journey through the crocodile-infested waters of the Bermuda Insurance Triangle on my quest to be the winner of my own version of The Biggest Loser (insert hilarious comment here!).
Although, I actually think the EGD (esophagogastroduodenoscopy - say that five times fast!) procedure was required by the Good Doctor, not insurance.
Anywho, The Wife and I arrived at Forrest Park Medical Center at 8:30 a.m. after the Good Doctor's office called the night before and told me that my original appointment had been moved up an hour. Seems they were trying something different for this go-round of stomach peekaboos.
Since the procedure itself takes so little time (and they're right about that), they were stacking us hefties up in groups so that when a bed came open, the next available would be ready when called.
So I signed in, noticing that there were 12 names ahead of me that had not already been crossed off in yellow highlighter, and took a seat among the 30 some-odd other folks there for a gut check (hee!).
Just picture a herd of cattle, grazing among the comfy couches in the cold-as-hell granite lobby, one by one being herded into a stall to put our hoof prints on consent forms and such. Moo.
It was just over an hour before I got the prod pointed in my direction. That wasn't so bad, I thought. An hour's wait is better than usual. But then we were herded down the hall into ANOTHER holding pen, where the 30 some-odd people that were there before me were still, in fact, there before me. Moooooo.
Another hour-plus wait ensued. Finally we got the call, and the rest, quite honestly is a blur, except for the part where it took four different people to put an IV in my arm. I look like a dang junkie today with all the bruises and puncture marks. After that, they turned and burned and I was outta there by Noon.
Just got off the phone with the Good Doctor's office. Turns out I have a small hiatal hernia (look it up) that can be fixed at surgery time, as well as a 7 mm gastric ulcer, which barely registers on the gastric ulcer doorjam growth chart (read: small and not that big of a deal). Pathology reports are pending, but nothing out of the ordinary expected (of course, is anything out of the ordinary every really expected?).
So .. gut ... checked. Next up? Cardio stress test and a psyche evaluations (again with the hilarious comments!).
SIDE NOTE: The flat screen in the waiting room was parked on ESPN, which is odd since 90 percent of the herd was female. Not only were we treated to multiple up-to-the-minute reports on The British Open, we also got to enjoy an endless loop of commercials for Taco Bell's new Bacon Cheesy Potato burrito. 30 fat people in a waiting room who hadn't eaten solid food since lunch the day before. You do the math. Udderly cruel (again, hee!).
SIDE NOTE NO. 2: Crispy, flavorful bacon, warm nacho cheese sauce, golden fiesta potatoes and seasoned ground beef, topped off with more crispy, flavorful bacon. This bad boy is deee-lish! Had it for lunch this afternoon.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
My Friend Fat, O How I Will Miss Thee
Current weight: Go measure the amount of water I displaced when I did a cannonball into the pool on Saturday. I think I flooded a few nearby houses.
Current mood: Moderately neat-0
Let me just start by saying I cannot begin to explain how tired I am of being fat. Bill Cosby level sick AND tired.
My skin has filed a grievance with its union stating that if asked to stretch any more, it will have no recourse but to go all Norma Rae on my ass; my man boobs make me feel like I should dress in a tight T-shirt and short-shorts and run onto the closest Major League Baseball field and kiss the starting pitcher; and my ears now officially weigh more than my 3-year-old.
Maybe I exaggerate.
And for those of you about to barf up a nasally and annoying, "Well why don't you do something blah blah blah." Just don't. Just. freaking. don't.
But contrary to what 4 out of 5 doctors say, there are some advantages to being anorexically challenged. Forth with ... things I will miss about being fat.
"Everything can change in the blink of an eye. So let the good times roll before we say goodbye."
Current mood: Moderately neat-0
Let me just start by saying I cannot begin to explain how tired I am of being fat. Bill Cosby level sick AND tired.
My skin has filed a grievance with its union stating that if asked to stretch any more, it will have no recourse but to go all Norma Rae on my ass; my man boobs make me feel like I should dress in a tight T-shirt and short-shorts and run onto the closest Major League Baseball field and kiss the starting pitcher; and my ears now officially weigh more than my 3-year-old.
Maybe I exaggerate.
And for those of you about to barf up a nasally and annoying, "Well why don't you do something blah blah blah." Just don't. Just. freaking. don't.
But contrary to what 4 out of 5 doctors say, there are some advantages to being anorexically challenged. Forth with ... things I will miss about being fat.
- When I'm on a Southwest flight, or any flight that's open enough to allow you to choose your seat, I always seek out a fellow fatty who is sitting in either an aisle or window seat, then plop down in the open aisle or window seat on the same row. Why? No one wants to sit between two fat people. Hand to God, works every single time. The look on the person's face when they realize that the only seat remaining is between me and my fat sidekick ... priceless.
- The face of every owner of every buffet joint I've ever been to. My man knows he's losing money on that day.
- When you are a big man like myself, you know, Thornton Melon Tall and Fat, people tend to get the hell out of your way. Maybe it's a survival instinct, maybe it's a fear of getting eaten, or maybe they don't want the giant stain of the day on my shirt rubbing off on them. Whatever the case, people tend to part like the Red Sea when I walk through a crowd. Works well when exiting a concert at say The Palladium or the old Gypsy Tea Room. "Get behind the fat man. He will lead us to freedom!!" And for those in the crowd not paying attention ... "Hey dude, wake up and check out track No. 5 of Dire Strait's 'On Every Street' album from 1991. Which one are you? The windshield or the bug?"
"Everything can change in the blink of an eye. So let the good times roll before we say goodbye."
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Two Down, One to Go
Current weight: 315 (I lost 10 pounds !!! Truthfully, I lose 10 pounds when I exhale really hard.)
Current mental status: Eager and anxious
Appointment No. 2 is in the books. Next and final appointment is set for July 31. Between now and then I got an ass-load (ain't the truth!) of stuff to do. Doctors to see, paperwork to fill out, pizza to eat, beer to drink.
In no particular order:
Current mental status: Eager and anxious
Appointment No. 2 is in the books. Next and final appointment is set for July 31. Between now and then I got an ass-load (ain't the truth!) of stuff to do. Doctors to see, paperwork to fill out, pizza to eat, beer to drink.
In no particular order:
- Cardiologist for an exercise stress test - one would say that all I have to do for this is to bend down and tie my shoes and that would be exercise and stress enough. One would be wrong.
- Psychiatrist for a psych consult - one would also say to make sure said shrink sticks to only the topic at hand and not delve into the darker and more disturbing antechambers of my mind. On would be right on this one.
- General physician for a 2-year weight history and a letter detailing failed diets and supporting bariatric surgery as medically necessary - one only has to look at my ample backside and long-term alcohol storage unit around my midsection to know this is medically necessary.
- Esophagogastroduodenoscopy (EGD) Procedure, which is an examination of the lining of the esophagus, stomach, and upper duodenum with a small camera (flexible endoscope) which is inserted down the throat. One does NOT need to make any jokes here about things being inserted down my throat.
Other things of note from Appointment No. 2:
- Met with physical therapist who gave me print outs on how to do ... sit-ups. I kid you not. Detailed, illustrated written instructions on how to ... sit ... up. Appearantly it's really important that I have strong abs prior to surgery. She even asked if I wanted her to demonstrate. I should have made her do it for shits and giggles. I did play a little football back in the day, so I'm familiar with the sit-up. Although a sit up for me today occurs only when I'm laying on the floor and have no other choice but to sit up to reach my food. What? You've never eaten while laying on the floor?
- Met with the nutritionist, who spelled out more things to work on this month in preparation for surgery and beyond. Small bites. Chew your food well. No eating in front of the television. Really? Good grief. Next thing you know they'll say no eating on the toilet. Sheeesh.
- Someone at the Good Doctor's office loves them some Ashton Kutcher and is trying to spread the love one fat person at a time by showing his greatest hits on the waiting room big screen. Last appointment? "Guess Who" starring the late great Bernie Mac and one half of Dude Where's My Car. This appointment? "What Happens in Vegas" starring Cameron Diaz and Mr. Demi Moore himself. Next appointment? If they are not showing an all-day marathon of "That '70s Show," I'm gonna be shocked.
That's about it. Shout out to Wayne, a Lap Bander friend of mine who had the surgery in December and has lost 70 lbs. Way to go Wayne. I'm looking forward to the same.
Coming Soon: What I will and won't miss about being fat. And yes, there are a few advantages to being large and in charge.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
First Impressions
Current Weight: 320 with clothes on (HA! Now you have the mental image of me standing on a scale naked!!!)
Weight Lost Since Initial Appointment: 5 lbs.
As I pedal sluggishly through the opening stages of my Tour de Fat, I continue to get my pant leg caught in the chain. And no matter how many times I work myself free, it only takes a few revolutions before I'm caught in the gears again and have ground to a halt.
For you non-sports types who already have a big question mark forming over your tilted head because you have no earthly idea what my somewhat clever but definitely over thought metaphor is referring to, I'll save you the brain cells.
Losing weight is hard work, y'all.
I mean, really hard.
I mean, trying to remember if Bad English had any other hit besides "When I See You Smile" hard.
Of course, if it were easy, we'd all be thin, Jenny Craig would be just some random chick and we'd instinctively know that in fact no, Bad English did not have another hit, unless you want to call "Price of Love" a hit (And if you do, then you are a bigger Bad English fan than I am).
But I already knew and expected all of this. (Cue segue into today's topic in 3 ... 2 ... 1) When I visited the Good Doctor for the first time last month, I had no idea what to expect. Here were my opening thoughts:
As The Wife and I approached the office, we were greeted in the hall by a long empty row of regulation brown wood chairs on either side of the door. Sweet merciful crap, I thought, this guy is all Dr. T and the Women up in here. He stacks 'em high and stacks 'em deep.
But it was early, and the overweight overflow hadn't quite made it into the hallway yet. And even though I had wisely opted for a morning appointment (thanks to whomever suggested that), the spacious and well decorated waiting room was already packed tight with at least 20 women at various stages of their own journey. Oh, and some dragged-along kid who was locked inside his PS3 or Nintendo DS or whatever the kids are playing with these days.
After filling out the ream of paperwork (one of which informed me that it will cost me a cool grand if I decide to cancel within two weeks of my surgery date) I settled in to weight, er, wait. And settle in I did, into a plush, oversized, incredibly comfortable leather recliner.
Not pleather, or vinyl or any facsimile thereof. We're talking Ricardo Montalban/Chrysler Cordoba/soft Corinthian grade leather. And not just my seat - ALL the seats, in either recliner or love seat or sofa form (all oversized, of course), spread across the hardwood floors. Quite obvious the Good Doctor had put some profit back into his practice.
It was a comfy cocoon for fat people; a mother's womb that nurtured and cuddled its fat little babies close in its supple leathery arms while preparing to give birth to a litter of thin people (OK ... again definitely over thought there).
It struck me as odd at first but later it made total sense. Gotta keep the fat, well, happy.
The remaining wait was uneventful, except that we got to watch part of "Guess Who" with Bernie Mac and Ashton Kutcher (in high definition, of course). SIDE NOTE: Guess Who? Really? Someone actually thought that was a good idea. The mind boggles.
Anyway, it's back to the Good Doctor in a couple of weeks for the next leg of my Tour de Fat. And hopefully one day in the near future, my butt will fit just as well on those hard wooden chairs in the hallway as it does in the comfy cocoon. Ricardo Montalban be damned!
Weight Lost Since Initial Appointment: 5 lbs.
As I pedal sluggishly through the opening stages of my Tour de Fat, I continue to get my pant leg caught in the chain. And no matter how many times I work myself free, it only takes a few revolutions before I'm caught in the gears again and have ground to a halt.
For you non-sports types who already have a big question mark forming over your tilted head because you have no earthly idea what my somewhat clever but definitely over thought metaphor is referring to, I'll save you the brain cells.
Losing weight is hard work, y'all.
I mean, really hard.
I mean, trying to remember if Bad English had any other hit besides "When I See You Smile" hard.
Of course, if it were easy, we'd all be thin, Jenny Craig would be just some random chick and we'd instinctively know that in fact no, Bad English did not have another hit, unless you want to call "Price of Love" a hit (And if you do, then you are a bigger Bad English fan than I am).
But I already knew and expected all of this. (Cue segue into today's topic in 3 ... 2 ... 1) When I visited the Good Doctor for the first time last month, I had no idea what to expect. Here were my opening thoughts:
As The Wife and I approached the office, we were greeted in the hall by a long empty row of regulation brown wood chairs on either side of the door. Sweet merciful crap, I thought, this guy is all Dr. T and the Women up in here. He stacks 'em high and stacks 'em deep.
But it was early, and the overweight overflow hadn't quite made it into the hallway yet. And even though I had wisely opted for a morning appointment (thanks to whomever suggested that), the spacious and well decorated waiting room was already packed tight with at least 20 women at various stages of their own journey. Oh, and some dragged-along kid who was locked inside his PS3 or Nintendo DS or whatever the kids are playing with these days.
After filling out the ream of paperwork (one of which informed me that it will cost me a cool grand if I decide to cancel within two weeks of my surgery date) I settled in to weight, er, wait. And settle in I did, into a plush, oversized, incredibly comfortable leather recliner.
Not pleather, or vinyl or any facsimile thereof. We're talking Ricardo Montalban/Chrysler Cordoba/soft Corinthian grade leather. And not just my seat - ALL the seats, in either recliner or love seat or sofa form (all oversized, of course), spread across the hardwood floors. Quite obvious the Good Doctor had put some profit back into his practice.
It was a comfy cocoon for fat people; a mother's womb that nurtured and cuddled its fat little babies close in its supple leathery arms while preparing to give birth to a litter of thin people (OK ... again definitely over thought there).
It struck me as odd at first but later it made total sense. Gotta keep the fat, well, happy.
The remaining wait was uneventful, except that we got to watch part of "Guess Who" with Bernie Mac and Ashton Kutcher (in high definition, of course). SIDE NOTE: Guess Who? Really? Someone actually thought that was a good idea. The mind boggles.
Anyway, it's back to the Good Doctor in a couple of weeks for the next leg of my Tour de Fat. And hopefully one day in the near future, my butt will fit just as well on those hard wooden chairs in the hallway as it does in the comfy cocoon. Ricardo Montalban be damned!
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