The beauty is ... well, me. The prick is from the nurse's needle that broke the surface of my skin yesterday because, after two weeks of insurance glitches, I said to hell with Anthem and their refusal to hand over my new insurance card and just kept the damn appointment to follow-up on my cholesterol.
(Or by the time I remembered to call and cancel on Thursday, the doctor's office was already closed and my appointment was the first one of the day and I didn't want to piss off the nurse because she's nice and all but has a bit of a Homie Don't Play That complex. Would you want to trigger the Homie in your health care professional? I didn't think so.)
Anyway. I get to the office and engage in some friendly banter with the receptionist, who's become a kindred spirit through all this insurance nonsense, and then I get weighed, and then I get pricked, and then I twiddle my thumbs until the doctor delivers the verdict.
Turns out he's got good things to say. While the actual test results won't be available until early next week, he reports that I've lost four pounds since my last visit, a sure sign that my cholesterol is on its way down. He said that I'm the exception, because most people who come in for this kind of follow-up have either gained weight or simply refuse to be weighed, a sure sign that they fell off their diets. He congratulated me for making such great progress and left instructions to call on Monday for the numbers.
And the whole time he's talking, all I can think is: there's no way I lost four pounds. No. freakin'. way.
Because at my last visit, I remember the nurse weighing me in at 133, and that made me ecstatic, because on the visit before THAT I was 139, and I said, "I lost six pounds?" and because she has a Homie Don't Play That complex, she wasn't about to patronize me, so she said, "Let me check on that," and then a few minutes later she was all, "You're right!" And then I cried tears of joy into the camera and thanked the Academy for making this miracle possible.
At yesterday's visit, I weighed 135, which at first didn't bother me because I was on day two of my cycle and therefore blamed the extra poundage on Aunt Flo's water-retaining suitcase. That is, until Mr. Doctor started talking about extra weight sentencing patients to cholesterol hell. THEN it totally bothered me, and twenty-four hours later, I still can't tell which of us is the crazy one. Was that glorious visit a figment of my imagination, or did Mr. Doctor skip over the last page in my file?
Who knows. It no longer takes three jean wears for the denim band to accommodate my pouch, so maybe he's on to something. Either way, I'll find out next week. Cross your fingers.
In other news, I cannot BELIEVE I forgot to mention last week that Amalah answered my question on the Wednesday Advice Smackdown! Here's how it happened:
Last Thursday I was checking my Gmail, minding my own business, when I discovered the following message:
Hello!
So I read your comment AGES AGO about having a question in the July batch of advice emails (Right? Am not hallucinating this?) (Man, I gotta cut back on the shrooms.), and I was all, "Oh! Frema deserves special treatment, because I love her!" So I was decided that your question would be the next one I answered.
Except...um...I don't seem to have it. Which is probably completely my fault -- I may have not labeled it correctly or something. So! I would like to answer your question, either the original one or any other new question of your choosing, since you know, JULY.
Bah.
Amy
And I was like, "Holy crap! The goddess of the Internet is talking to ME!" So I wrote a really long reply that spelled out my question of what to do about sunburnt shoulders, originally submitted because I was wearing a strapless dress in my sister's wedding and needed advice on how to cover them up. I went on to tell her that now is actually the PERFECT time to be answering this because I'm getting married in May and the dress is strapless, thus resurrecting the problem all over again. I may or may not have ended my monologue with, "This e-mail will stay in my Gmail box FOREVER." Nerd.
And then, heavens to Betsy, I was on Amalah.com.
Amalah did a great job of whittling my rambles down into a short and comprehendible read, though there are a few words peppered here and there that only those privy to my original e-mail would understand. But still, me! On Amalah.com! Mine was the last question, so do a little scrollin' and witness the glory for yourself. Also, if you read the comments, you'll notice our own Number Twelve was the first to post. A happy, happy day.