When my doctor first suggested that I should drop a few pounds, she was very pregnant. Naturally, I assumed that she was suffering from a combination of too many baby hormones and a longing for her own, formerly slender body. So, I ignored her advice and continued to consume my nightly allotment of sugary munchies.
The second time she advised me to lose a few muffins from my waistline, I felt that her heart was, obviously, mired in a tangle of unresolved mother issues with her own mother and as a result was projecting all of her unspoken irritations onto her more matronly patients…of which I am one. Again, I poo-poohed her recommendations and filed the diet plans and nutritional guidelines she gave me in a folder marked “what does my very young, skinny doctor know about anything” and promptly hit the local pastry shop for a double chocolate latte and a baker’s dozen bite-sized donut holes.
Then this Sunday, I was dressing to go out with some friends for dinner at a fancy, schmancy downtown restaurant only to discover that my best dress pants–the ones with with the zipper and non-elasticized waistband–no longer fit me to perfection. In fact, I couldn’t even get them completely zipped.
For a second, I thought, “Yikes, maybe my doctor was right…I do need to shed a pound or two.” I was waddling toward the filing cabinet where I’d stashed the high veggie, low sugar menu plans she’d given me before, when suddenly, like a bolt out of the blue, the truth hit me. I hadn’t gained any weight. Nah! My doctor had simply sneaked into my house, and, using one of those hand-held sewing machines they used to advertise on infomercials, nipped in the waist and hips of my favorite baggy clothes just to prove her point.
I was so proud of myself for being too smart to fall for her medically maniacal ploy that I rewarded myself with an extra gooey hot fudge sundae with nuts for my dessert.
And I didn’t share!