Thursday, December 8

hakol beseder ... and it's Thursday!!

Two days ago (I know -- BAD blogger!!) I got in to see cardiologist Dr. B, only to be told that -- wouldn't ya know it -- his ultrasound machine was on the blink... and not in a good way. About an hour earlier it had just stopped functioning, after I'd wasted -- wasted!! -- most of the morning missing work waiting for this appointment. [ed. note: Anybody who knows this blogger even vaguely will detect the irony here: work time is wasted time; free time, never. What I actually did was drag mr. squarepeg out to the entirely-empty-at-9am grocery store and do a week's shopping. And I did laundry and puttered around the house. It was deeliteful.]

Not that I had even been to the gym in the past 10 days, having felt like shit with the longest PMS on record, but I said to him, "Don't you have something in the computer on my previous checkups, something that would remind you that my EKG is unusual, but that there's nothing wrong with me? I need that form for the gym!" So he went to the computer, did indeed find that when he last checked me, 7 years ago, my echo (ultrasound) was a bit unusual, but that it was nothing to worry about. So he pulled out the ol' stethoscope (yay, low-tech always saves the day), listened here, listened there, pointed to my belly and said I was too fat, felt up my leg for I'm not sure what (it's a nice leg) and said I was fine.

As he printed out a form for the gym I showed him my cholesterol readings from my recent blood test. Overall: a tad high at 216; HDL: okay at 49; LDL: borderline too high with 153; Triglycerides: very low at 65. He said it was not so bad, overall I was in good shape, "But lose weight." I got the distinct impression he was appraising me not totally as a doctor, but partially as a male. Was that a tiny leer I perceived in his Gallic twinkle? How egocentric am I?

As I got into the elevator, he was leaving as well, so I had the chance to ask him, sort of playfully, "So, how many? Two? Three? How many kilos?"

Pausing to give me the once-over, he said, "Four." Ouch. (Americans: multiply by 2.2 to calculate pounds.) That would make me the weight I was at age 20 (with a lot less muscle mass, I grant you). I can barely lose ONE kilo, no matter what I do. What are the odds I'll lose four?

Flippantly, I answered, "Oh, you French men, you have completely different standards." That was my parting shot, since we'd reached the ground floor and he was continuing downward to the basement parking.

I don't know if he thought I was amusing or just a weirdo, but I get to see him again in 4 weeks, for the official appointment, when the ultrasound machine will, hopefully, be working. He'll be squirting that gel all over my chest as he examines me inside and out. Four weeks.

That's one kilo a week. Damn.

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