Fortunately I've never had to pay much attention to my weight, even after giving birth to Sonny and Cher. Well, that is until just recently. Now for those of you wanting to African witch slap me right now, simmer down. I'm not climbing Mount Ego I'm just saying we all fight different battles. And, if it makes you feel any better, I had a mustache at ten, crow's feet in high school and I'll be the only octogenarian with a pimple prescription.
Anyway, at the height of swimsuit season I noticed the scale consistently and incorrectly inflating my weight. So, I replaced the batteries, my jeans, and eventually the scale(twice actually: digital and analog) before reluctantly grasping reality. After ten new pounds in two weeks (that's a lot for a tiny troll) I revisited some of my favorite profanities and broke up with all three scales.
Like any bitter Betty I beefed to my friends who assured me I still looked fine and that it was probably nothing. But, one honest gal (while training for a triathlon) cited a study which found most women over 30 gain a pound a year due to sluggish metabolisms unless they significantly improve their diet and exercise regimens. (Isn't that just spit on your neck fantastic?)
When I unintentionally modeled my broken elastic britches at the doctor, she ran some tests and determined a dead beat thyroid was the likely perpetrator of my new belly goo, fatigue and exceptionally charming disposition.
Do you have any idea how liberating it is to be given a legitimate medical reason for weight gain and rudeness? And, the doctor wisely chose not to cheapen the moment by using the queen mother of all cuss words (diet) or it's ugly step-sister (exercise) in my remedy. Was it Christmas? I was smiling so hard my face cracked even more than normal.
After muttering side effect warnings of explosive diarrhea, arrhythmias and osteoporosis, the pharmacist said, and I quote "IF YOU LOSE MORE THAN TEN POUNDS IN A WEEK, CALL YOUR PHYSICIAN IMMEDIATELY TO ADJUST YOUR DOSE." Yeah, right. While I'm at it I'll return the free box of Botox, decline Matthew McConaughey's proposal and tell Ed McMahon to keep the clearinghouse cash.
I was well past giddy as I skipped to the car and tore open the sack like a strung out junkie. Gearing up to gulp the magic fat melting meds and drop 5 lbs by dinner, one of the warning stickers stopped me cold. "TAKE ON AN EMPTY STOMACH." More specifically "Take one hour prior or two hours after a meal." When exactly is that? According to my watch it's half past snack time. The label may as well have read, "Take when your house is clean, you've shaved your legs, and there's peace in the middle east."
Needless to say it's 4 months later, my thyroid's normal but I'm still squeaking into my jeans by spraying Downey on the seams.
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6 comments:
Once again, thank you.
Now I'm patiently waiting for the post about the dog with the tiny head and the red head.
I think I just peed a little. That was awesome!!! I like Shelley am waiting for that post as well.
Ha!! I'm dying! You seriously crack me up! (Hope you don't mind me blog-stalking from Jenny's.) Maybe I should go get my thyroid checked. Ha!! In my dreams!
I've decided this post SERIOUSLY needs to be entered into some kind of a writing competition. Randy and I died laughing at this!
K, you rhyme and you are funny. Was that your ugly step-sister, or were you walking the other day? You go girl.
I was going to suggest waking up in the middle of the night to take the medication...but that would just make me need a snack to wash it down. Dang, that IS a dilemma!
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