One of the good things about getting older is that most of the comments about weight are from the doctor. In the past few months, I've refused to get on the scales. Now, that really wigs the nurses out! I've been told I couldn't do that, that Doctor won't be pleased, and any number of inane comments. I get such wicked pleasure from my answers to them. They really do not have a clue. Yes, I can refuse to get on the scales, and you can't make me.
After the third or fourth time of my refusing, the doctor finally started to get miffed. He pointed to the BP cuff and the scales and said, "These are the only things that don't lie to me!" Fighting words, them. "Are you accusing me of lying?!?!?" It's starting to feel like a 15-year association is about to end. I'm diabetic. It's sinfully difficult to lose weight. I'm not there to be weighed. I know how much I weigh. I need my meds. Otherwise, just butt out!
Oh yeah, I've heard all about how pretty I would be if I lost the weight...yadda yadda...all my life. My husband cracked me up the other day when he was making the bed (while I was still in it). He said, "Would you ask the 150-lb. Goddess to get out of the bed." I said, "I'll tell her, but what about me?" His response, "She won't go anywhere without you." I said, "Yeah, but I can't let her out on her own. She gets me in terrible trouble." He gets it. He'd rather have all of me than that 150-lb. troublemaker. Oh, she was a piece of work all right. I'm so glad I have her well contained in here!
