Health and Welfare

I went to the doctor a few weeks ago and prepared myself for the lecture about losing weight and getting more exercise. He’s like a broken record. No matter what I go to him for, it always gets back to losing at least 20 pounds and exercising regularly. I don’t know what he’s complaining about, I have lost 20 lbs... many times over. And I have actually been trying different exercise regimens all the time to try to find something that I like enough that I’ll stick with it. The problem is that his take on exercising regularly and mine seem to differ. He’s talking Monday, Wednesday, Friday. I have been actively searching for “cardio” programs more on the January, February, March kinda schedule.

So I was sitting in the examination room dreading his entrance, when in comes the nurse. Tell me, what is up with sending in a nurse beforehand who takes your blood pressure and asks you every freakin’ time what medications you are taking? You would think they'd know. "I take the ones the damn doctor prescribes", I was thinking to myself. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work? But I didn’t want to make waves so I took out the little card I made with all my prescriptions and dosages and read them out loud so the nurse could make notes... AGAIN.

“Is your primary care physician allowed to call you a smart ass?”

Alone once more, there was a knock on the door. It was him. He always enters the same way. Reading my chart, shaking his head and mumbling. “ Miss Fifi... you’ve lost a pound and a half since your last visit”, he grumbled. Without hesitation, I exuberantly applauded myself for a job well done while he give me a very unkind look. Is your primary care physician allowed to call you a smart ass? Just wondering. He obviously wasn’t impressed with my weight loss, so I promised to work on it. And I always do work on it, but I also work on putting it back on with just as much conviction. He then asks me what I do for exercise. I knew this question was coming and I was prepared. “I started water aerobics”, I replied, hoping that would appease him. I avoided eye contact to try to keep the conversation from going any further. The truth is I actually stopped water aerobics the same day I started. I liked it except for the fact that I don’t like wearing a swimsuit and I hate getting wet. I did love it that I was the youngest person in the class, however.

“Water Arobics!” That’s not the kind of exercise you need!” he bellowed. “Listen to me!” he continued to bark. “If it were up to me, I would have chosen yoga for you!”. Was I dreaming? He would have frozen yogurt for me? When? Where? What flavors? Is this while I am exercising or after? It didn’t take me long to realize that he was recommending yoga. He felt that Hatha Yoga was something I would benefit from greatly, both in body and soul. I couldn’t disagree. I had dabbled in brief yoga sessions before on cruise ships and really did like it. Of course, heading to the buffet afterwards may have had something to do with it. I speak Yoga-ese enough to know that Hatha is the calming, stretching, get-in-touch-with-your-body-and-spirit kind of yoga. I almost got rooked into joining my youngest daughter for a yoga session a few years ago. I didn’t know about different kinds of yoga until she left a voice message reminding me about our date for “Pilgrim” Yoga. I called her back and inquired as to what Pilgrim Yoga was all about. It turns out that I misunderstood what she said and it is called Bikram Yoga. It involves doing yoga moves in a room that is heated to 105 degrees. I gently declined the invitation although my daughter insisted that I would find it to be a joyous and "freeing" experience. Bless her heart! All I could think about was what could be worse than exercise? Exercising in the DESERT, was my immediate thought. Whew! Talk about dodging a bullet.

My doctor and I discussed the virtues of yoga and I promised to give it a try. It couldn’t hurt me and it might even help my soul and my stress level. My appointment seemed to be going well and he was actually slightly delightful. I thought he was leaving, but instead he sat down, opened my folder and looked at the notes that the nurse had just taken. “So, are you still taking Sillystatin, Yadamycin and Gooberglycol?” he said with a straight face, making certain to include the dosages. It took everything in me to answer him calmly without affirming his “smart ass” diagnosis of me. I wanted to say “Nah, I don’t take them anymore. I just fill the prescriptions and what I can’t sell on the Black Market, I am able to get rid of in alley ways.” But I didn’t. I just smiled and promised to eat less cookies and look for a suitable yoga class.

I start tonight. I have a brand new yoga mat and I am waiting to see what everyone else is wearing so that if I continue, I have the cutest yoga clothes in the class. To be continued...

Sick Isn't For Sissies

Today is Thursday. I almost always put my brain meanderings into words on Thursdays to get them to you on Saturdays. I "marinate" on my topic throughout the week and put it all to bed on Thursday. The problem with this Thursday is that I am trying to put my article to bed in bed.

I am sick. Nothing terrible, just some kind of bug that my flu shot doesn't cover. The angst associated with feeling crappy comes not from the fact that I couldn't muddle through at the office when I have the flu, but it isn't fair to make everybody else sick, so I stayed at home and am working from my bed. I want you to get the mental image before I continue.

You know how in those 1940s movies when the lovely lady of the house was under the weather, you saw her propped up in her grand poster bed on sumptuous satin pillows with gorgeous bed linens covering her up to her lap. She was often catching up on her correspondence using a bed tray as a desk and wearing a stunning satin bed jacket. Her hair was coiffed to perfection. The maid would often times bring her tea and then fluff those sumptuous pillows before asking if Madame needed anything else to make her comfortable. The maid would then announce that Dr. McMurphy should be arriving any minute to look after the ailing lady of the house. Get the picture? It's nothing like that here.

My bedding is very nice and fluffy, but my two dogs are blanket and pillow hogs and I am lucky they share at all. There are no bed trays in sight, but there are at least 4 glasses on my side table that have accumulated since I took ill last evening. Add to that the array of cough drops, DayQuil, NyQuil, Kleenex and a box of Wheat Thins. I can never get that "feed a cold, starve a fever" thing straight, so I like to be prepared. I am not wearing a satin bed jacket. I have on a Dr. Seuss "Cat in the Hat " t-shirt and yoga pants. My hair is as far from coiffed as you can get with random bits sticking straight up. Dr. McMurphy won't be stopping by the house to treat me, but I did call my doctor this morning to try to get some help with fighting this crud. He can see me next Tuesday at 3:45p.m. The nurse apologized, but reminded me that it was the Memorial Day weekend. Of course it is. When else would I get sick but right before a three day weekend?

I have spent the day feeling awful, watching stupid things on TV and trying to figure out what in the hell I was going to write about today. My readers mean everything to me and I hate disappointing you ever. So instead, I dragged you along to my pity party. We are in this relationship through good and bad, sickness and health... right?

Hopefully I will feel better shortly and next week will be much more fun for everybody. Right now, I am going a little stir crazy and am considering going downstairs to the patio and breathing some fresh air. I am torn, because the dogs will move into my warm spot and I will have to jockey for a place to lie down when I return. Nah... I'll just stay in bed. If I go downstairs, guilt will compel me to carry some of these drinking glasses to the kitchen. It might be the fever but I think my maid should be here any moment.