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| My freshman yearbook photo |
So, my pastor friend and his family left town a couple days ago. After a weekend of lasts (last time at book club; last time at McDonald's having breakfast together on Saturday with the kids; last worship service on Sunday), I stopped by his house for the last time on Monday, June 21, to say goodbye and help him and his wife load up some last boxes.
I went to his house immediately following a doctor's appointment. It was a six-month checkup, so I was expecting the whole song-and-dance: bend-over-and-spread-'em, turn-your-head-and-cough, open-wide-stick-out-your-tongue-and-say-"ah." It wasn't quite that invasive, for which I was thankful. However, the thing I really dread, even more than the digital rectal exam, is stepping on the scale and receiving the bad/good news about my weight.
I have fought the battle of the bulges my whole life. In high school, I went from being a pudgy, freshman outcast to a thin, cross country runner. In the years since high school, I have fluctuated from being normal to fat many times. You pick the term, I've been labeled it: h
usky, burly, big-boned, tubby, plump,
obese, grossly
obese,
fat-assed, double-chinned, double-wide, etc. Whether these words were an accurate description of my physical condition is beside the point. No matter what the scale says, I always feel fat.
Stepping on the scale at the doctor's office, then, is my least favorite part of the visit. The fact that the scale is in the middle of the public hallway is even worse. Anyone can see you standing there, receiving the judgement. At least if the scale were in a private exam room, I could remove my shoes, socks, shirt, pants, insulin pump, and watch. Like at home. If I took a healthy crap before the appointment, I stand the chance of, at the very least, maintaining my weight from my last visit.
The fact that my doctor revels in telling me that I could stand to lose a few pounds doesn't make the situation any better. I sit in the exam room, half-naked, feeling more exposed than Ron Jeremy at work, and wait for my doctor to look up from his laptop with an expression usually reserved for the bearded fat lady at the State Fair. It's inevitable. As a life-long skinny person, my doctor doesn't have a lot of sensitivity to weight issues, aside from knowing it's unhealthy.
On Monday, when my doctor said, "Well, everything looks good. The only thing is your weight," I said, "I know. I don't understand it. I've been dieting all day long."
He looked at me. I looked at him. We stared at each other for a full twenty seconds before I said, "It was a joke."
He went back to typing on his laptop, and I went back to feeling like a Buddha statue at a Thai restaurant.
Rub my belly for luck, I thought.
Needless to say, I wasn't in the greatest mood when I showed up at my pastor friend's house. I don't do well with partings to begin with; throw on top of that my encounter with Dr. Skinny-ass, and you have a pretty good idea of my frame of mind.
I helped my friend and his wife finish packing for about half an hour, long enough to walk through the empty parsonage and let the permanence of the change sink in fully. Generally, I try not to wallow in self-pity, but I was pretty much up to my eyes in it by the time I hugged them goodbye and drove away.
Ethelreda, today's saint, is one of those holy people who seem attracted to pain. The book actually says, "Sufferings were her delight. She thanked God when, in her last sickness, she had much to suffer." I understand, to a degree, accepting suffering with grace and dignity. I even understand thinking of suffering as a way a distilling your character, burning off the petty angers, jealousies, and hurts, to make yourself a stronger, spiritually deeper person. I understand that. I do. However, I don't get the concept of being delighted with suffering (unless it involves a Republican). I've been through some difficult times in my life, and I don't think I would ever volunteer to do it all over again. Am I a stronger, better person because of the trials I've experienced? Yes. Do I delight in feeling like a pile of elephant dung? No.
Now, a few days past my doctor's appointment and my friend's departure, I can honestly say I don't think I'm a better person. In fact, I don't like people too much at the moment, friends or relatives. It'll get better. It always does.
But for the time being, I feel like a fat, little high school freshman, dodging the balls God's hurling at me.
