Fat chance.
–I stepped on the doctor’s scale the other day and told the nurse that my shoes weighed 35 pounds. She laughed and doubted it, so I guess I didn’t pull a fast one on her.
–It was myself I was fooling, but she let my dream world move on. Sure, I have heard of portion control, smart food choices and cutting calories. But that’s for those other people whose shoes also weigh 35 pounds. Besides, counting calories is too much like going back to college level math and chemistry, neither of which were my forte.
–“Did I own a scale?” No, I explained to that nosey nurse because I could tell my weight change right away by how my clothes fit. It just so happens that my elastic waist bands were shrinking in that pesky dryer. So I have to go out and buy larger sizes. Then the clothing industry sizes their stuff to fit adolescent Praying Mantises only. The sleeves are too short and nothing covers my rear end. There are no X sizes that cure my basic build.
–She began to roll her eyes. “And what about exercise?” she wondered. Well, that’s what I am going to start tomorrow, I promised, thinking that it would take me at least a day to recover from nurses with no sense.
–“What kind of exercise?” she snickered. Well, I thought lifting a wine stem would be strenuous, especially when the glass was the size of a goldfish bowl. Tomorrow, I will also diet with smaller portions and smart food choices. Yeah, right, tomorrow. Counting calories will have to wait, however, until I take a refresher math course. I don’t understand all those voodoo numbers that have nothing to do with my restaurant life and juicy menus.
–Had I ever had a cholesterol test, she queried. She wasn’t even writing anything down at this point, except maybe to make a note that this hag needs a shrink. Was cholesterol another math test? I wondered.
–“What did I usually order at a restaurant?” Well, that depends on the special of the day; usually cheesy, juicy, saucy, potatoey, with oodles of noodles and lots of calories, whatever they are. And, of course, if the dessert tray walks by, it jumps on my plate.
–My real problem is my goody two-shoes friends, I told her. I knew this nurse would feel sorry for me then. One of them brags everyday about how many miles she exercises. She once reported four miles, to which I snipped, “well, rootie-toot-toot to you,” and one-upped her that I had lifted two loads of laundry.
–Another friend always looks thin and petite, and seems to have no unhealthy excesses. She doesn’t have to brag because she just automatically makes me look fat when in public with her.
–So I have decided to choose different friends. My new clique of “home hags” will be fat, depressed and have bad habits. They will look disgusting in public, have no taste for clothing or class.
–My new circle of home hags will then make me look like a svelte sex symbol. I will breeze about with them and be the thinnest in sight. They will slurp themselves to death at restaurants to make my portions seem modest.
–The main thing about my new group of home hags is that they would think that I am most intelligent and superior in every way. I would articulate how brilliant my purpose in life while they would fawn at my every word.
–“Fat chance!” as the nurse walked away shaking her head.
