…said Inigo Montoya…
So today I had a checkup with my family practice doctor because she wouldn’t extend my prescriptions without seeing me in person, and I need to fill them in order to have enough on hand for my upcoming trip.
First there is the weigh in. Good Lord.
Next is the foot inspection in which I am poked in the extremities and asked whether I can feel it. Yes, I can, thank you very much.
And then the discussion about blood sugar control and exercise, blah blah blah. I know the story. I know the rules. I know I need to exercise more. I know I need to weigh less. Don’t eat breads. Avoid anything made with wheat. No deli meats. No soft cheeses. Watch the fish. Is it friend or foe? (These latter are the pregnancy precautions.) Watch the fruits. Too much sugar you know. Try to avoid the fats. It seems I am to live on vegetables and chicken breasts. Which is fine, but tiresome if it’s every. single. day. Join a gym. Join Weight Watchers. She says she finds these are the most effective things. Home exercise just isn’t enough, she says. Join a gym. Ummmm, I work full time, and have a family. I get up at 6 a.m., get home around 6 p.m., it’s usually about 7:30 by the time we’ve finished dinner, then there is a kitchen to at least make an attempt to tidy, if nothing more than throwing things in the sink, there are baths to take and bed preparations. If I were to even attempt to enforce bed time, then the enforcement thereof takes a minimum of half an hour and usually more like one to one and a half hours. (Which is why I usually cave and just let him go to bed when I go to bed.) So. Precisely when will I be going to the gym?
When I do do my Dance Dance Revolution, I’m completely dripping with sweat when I’m done, and breathing sufficiently hard to know that there is cardio exercise taking place. So my doctor is a teeny weeny tiny little thing who advocates good health (which is good, she’s a doctor, she should) and whose favorite hobby is running. I wonder if she actually eats. I always feel like such a walrus next to her. I think I’d rather have a big fat crotchety old man doctor who will just bark at me that I need to lose weight. No, scratch that. That would be humiliating too. I think there’s no way to slice it without humiliation.
Add to that the first trimester exhaustion in which I can barely drag myself home at the end of the day, let alone get up and exercise.
I walked the aisles of Costco for half an hour*, waiting for my prescriptions to be filled. Does that count as exercise?
*And filled my cart with peanut butter, almond butter, romaine, celery, broccoli, cold ground flax seed, low carb no flour sprouted grain bread, artichoke hearts, pepperoncini, reduced fat bacon bits, rice, and freeze dried fruit. Almost all reasonably good foodstuffs.
