Last week I had to go to the doctor.  The doctor is in a town we used to live in which is two-and-a-half hours away.  The drive there was pretty uneventful given the fact that I am a nervous driver and as such tend to over think things like curves and on ramps and things of that nature.

I don’t actually close my eyes when I have to merge onto the freeway in fast, heavy traffic but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.

Sometimes I think I hear honking and my heart just about stops and then I’ll realize it’s on the CD I’m listening to.  “Why is there so much honking on CD’s nowadays?”  I often yell to myself once I figure out what’s going on.

So I got to the Dr.’s office alive, a fact which the lady behind the glass seemed to think was no big whoop.  Then, I had to tell her I forgot to bring my insurance card (which I somehow lost), but something told me to lie and tell her I forgot it to lessen the blow of her indignation.  It didn’t help though.  After that, she treated me like I was a teenage, reckless driver who had just ran over her prized petunias.

Anyway I finally got into the little room with my dignity semi-intact, and I noticed that the doctor had up the sign about menopause that says:  The good thing about having hot flashes is that you are one hot babe for a couple minutes, or something to that effect.

“Menopause humor makes me want to shoot my doctor!” I wanted to say when my doctor walked in. But I didn’t because I like my doctor for the most part, and I don’t own a gun.

Anyway, the nurse took my blood pressure, listened to my pulse and wrote everything down in small numbers and I had to peek to see what she was writing.  I couldn’t read her writing so I had to ask her.  Why don’t they just announce it?  The nurses always act like your blood pressure and your pulse are none of your business.

So then my doctor comes in.  She’s a real nice lady.  We go over my health, everything is fine and dandy until she brings up that my cholesterol number was too high last time.  Have I had it checked since? No.  So she decides to check it right there in the office.  Okay.

I knew the number was pretty high when she came back in and started treating me like I was a vial of nitroglycerin that could explode at any minute and wipe out all life as we know it.

Doctor:  You cholesterol is off the charts!”

Me:  You mean like “off the charts” good.  Like it’s so good it’s “off the charts?”

Doctor:  No I mean it’s so high it can’t be measured.

 

Oh nuts!  Unfortunately, in my case my high cholesterol is hereditary.  So I didn’t even get to my off the chart number by eating all kinds of wonderfully decadent things that I now have to cut out.

Frankly I’m already scraping the bottom of the barrel when it comes to fun — food wise.  Now it looks like I’ll have to cut out even more joys, like dairy and oils and sweets and everything that makes life delicious. Sigh . . .

If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen trying to figure out how to make a Tofu milkshake.

Until next time  . . . I love you