March 1, 2012
I spent the month of February at the doctors. For no particular reason, other than that I am a fan of preventive and diagnostic medical care. So I go all the necessary pokes and prods and tests to prove that I am good to go for another year.
The final result? I am healthier than I have any right to be. Everything is normal, or damn close to it. Medically normal, anyway. Still crazy after all these years…
But I need to lose weight. I announced that going in, to save the medical professionals time. My favorite LPN replied that she asks “How can I help?” instead of telling people that they need to go on a diet, because they already know.
And she’s right. It’s not like any fat person goes to the doctor, steps on the scale and goes “#$%#$%%$# where did that come from? I was 120 pounds when I woke up this morning.”
Any way. I decided to take action in advance of the appointment, and dragged my husband onto Nutrisystem for a few months. And I am sure it will be only a few months, because I am traveling in April (see my updated appearance page). And if I am still eating out of little plastic trays and moisture sealed bags, you had all better keep out of my way. I will be so hungry by then that I will leap over the autographing table and savage you like a wolf.
It’s hard to get noticed at RT because the place is so big and so busy. But I’m betting the Regency historical author in the M aisle, chewing on a bloody bone, would make all the authors behaving badly blogs.
Let us say that, after a month, the pair of us left in casa ‘almost totally cheese-less’ are smaller, but a little sensitive to the presence of food. When anything with fat or flavor passes by, our heads come up to track the scent like we are posing for National Geographic.
This morning, my breakfast was a protein shake, and a patty that did not have the nerve to call itself sausage. I share an office with my husband, and was sitting at my desk, hunched protectively over the little thing.
Between us is the dog, who is a bag of bones under a cloud of hair and cannot spare a pound. In the last month, his begging has taken on an air of desperation. I should probably order him a pizza just to keep up with his metabolism.
On the other side of the room, the DH’s chair spun to face me. “What are you eating?”
I waved the empty plate at him. “You can smell it?”
DH: “It smelled like sausage. Or maybe urine.”
ME: “ So you wanted to know if I was having breakfast or had wet my pants?”
ME: “It was a maple flavored. Kind of sweet. If it was the other, I’d have had to be diabetic.”
In other news:
A title for the next book has been chosen:
Two Wrongs Make a Marriage
So, no one called it. But it matters not. Thanks for playing, and I will gather the names this week, and give away some books.