Are You Saying I'm Fat?

2 weeks ago the doctor said a word I thought I'd never hear before I was 30. A word I've dreaded my whole life. A word that struck so much fear in my heart that I had to take a deep breath just to stave off the panic attack.

He said "diet".

Actually, he said it nicer than that. "You might think about a diet," he said -- trying to break the news gently. Then in the same breath he said, "...but you are the perfect weight."

What was this? Some kind of new training? (My medical school friends can chime in. Dan? Where are you Dan?) What are they teaching you in school these days? What's the title of that class? The Weighty Matter of Telling Females they're Overweight 101? How to Keep Your Patient Confused 201? How to Lie to Your Patient while Keeping a Straight Face 501?

It has to be that last title. Because I pretty much felt lied to.

"So you're telling me to diet," I said, "but that I'm the perfect weight?"

"Well... see..."

The doctor then pulled out the scariest instrument he had: a pen. I knew I was in for a long speech. My heart pounded. He started to draw on my chart.

"What is that?" I pointed to a squiggly circle.

"It's a cell," he said.

"But it has no bars," I said.

"This is a cell in your body. See how it's resisting the insulin? That's why you need a diet."

"Is that like resisting arrest?"

"Not exactly."

"Are you saying I'm fat?"

"Not exactly."

It's been 9 days on my perfect-weight diet. Everything I see looks like a carb. I had a dream last night that a giant blueberry muffin ate my doctor's head.

It was beautiful.