Curiobesity Killed the Cat

I had to go in for my H. pylori follow up test today. I was dreading it, but not because I might still have had H. pylori in my system. I hate getting weighed at the doctor's office. I've been having some body image issues ever since I had Jelly/got pregnant with Jelly and when I hear or see the number on the scale I just get fixated on it. I excoriate myself for my weight instead of seeing the good things (or even the non-weight-related bad things) that I'm doing all I can think is that number and how high it is and how tv characters have made fun of girls who are like 170 for being hugely fat and I would be thrilled to be 170 and stuff. Anyway, it's a dark, dark spiral full of sadness  and unhelpful thoughts and behaviors.

Anyway, I got there at the unholy time of 8:15am and checked in and, after a brief but annoying scheduling snafu, I was led to THE SCALE. (Can I just say that the obsession with weight in our medical system is getting me down. I have to get weighed to blow into a bag to see if I have bacteria in my stomach. I have to be weighed when I have my eyes examined. I have to be weighed at the psychologist's office. Let's not forget that the way this whole H.Pylori debacle got going was heartburn after Jelly was born. I went to the doc because was worried I might have H. pylori. Our old bishop had it and eventually it helped the gastric inflammation from heartburn turn into esophageal cancer, so it's on my radar. The doc laughed off my concerns, put me on meds (but did not explain that you're supposed to take them 30 minutes before eating) and said, "if you wanna get off the meds, you got to lose weight." Actually, just do the stupid test I'm asking you to do and then treat me for my infection and then I'll feel better and I won't go off on angry screeds on the internet when I'm actually just trying to share an amusing anecdote.)

Back to THE SCALE. I asked the nurse to not tell me my weight and she obliged, noting that she weighs more than I do. She was pretty chatty and as we got settled to take the test (blow into the blue bag, then drink this weird Kool aid that's literally 100% aspartame, then blow into the pink bag), she asked what I was doing that day and shared that she had to go to court to support her husband. I perked up slightly, even while trying to keep down the so sweet, (but also somehow so salty!) Kool aid concoction. "He did something he shouldn't have." she said.

I wanted to ask what he'd done, but I figured it was traffic court or something else boring and that, if it wasn't something small, it might be rude to try to force her to tell me. We moved on to other topics. I had to wait a couple of minutes to blow into the pink bag with Kool aid breath. I did it, and she hauled it to the test machine, and came back in a few minutes with a little receipt that said, "Negative." I was relieved. The initial round of antibiotics was pretty intense and I couldn't imagine what the follow up would be. I just wanted to go home, try to sneak back into bed and maybe eat something not aspartame flavored.

"Well, good luck with court today," I said, as I grabbed my purse and coat. "Thanks," she replied, "He did something really bad, but I believe in the power of prayers. He did something he really shoudn'ta done." The desire to ask what he'd done burned within me stronger than my old H. pylori infection (too soon?), but the confidentiality-loving attorney I had been refused to let me do it. "I'll pray for you then." I said, hating myself on the inside for not having the cojones to just reach into her soul and extract the information I wanted. "Thanks," she said. We walked in silence toward the door.

As she carried my papers to the front desk, she suddenly turned to me and spoke conspiratorially, "do you want to know what it was?"
Yes! I wanted to scream. Tell me your dark secret!
"Uh, sure," I said, "if you want to tell me." Come on, the secret is yours! Just take it! Tell me what he did! TELL ME WHAT! HE! DID!!!
"It's your body." she said, totally confusing me. He did something to my body? "Here," she said, showing me the paper.
I looked down. She held out a paper. Circled in prominent pen, my weight.

Huh. I've lost 7lbs. 

THE END. 

Becoming a Better Anne

I have blogged a lot in the past, but this year I've really wanted to become a serious writer. This, of course, hints immediately at my big problem: there are so many things I want to do. Even as I type this, they creep around in the back of my mind. Take down the Christmas tree, figure out what Jelly is messing with behind you, vacuum the Greta-fur out of the chair, re-become proficient at Spanish, finish that half-painted Painting hanging over Jelly (who it turns out is smearing yogurt in her car seat), write a book, move the light-starved citrus trees down to the basement, research whether the DEA is going to break down your door and shoot your dog if you set your citrus trees down under a grow light, oh, and deal with that car seat.
For a long time I thought about waiting until things calmed down a bit (i.e. until Jelly and whatever other children are grown and out of the house, I become independently wealthy, and Greta is living to an unnatural old age in amazing shape cared for by a team of walkers, groomers and wizards (to brew the anti-aging elixir that keeps her forever young). Then I talked to my mom about the many times that the tasks at the back of my mind rear up and overwhelm me. She told me that my sainted Grandma Dot, at age 87, sat in her well worn easy chair one day and said, "I can look in any direction and see forty things that I need to do that I haven't gotten to yet." This was not one of my mom's better pep talks.
So I've been thinking about the things I want to do and realized that most of the time, I don't actually want to do them. I want to have done them. I picture myself in my easy chair at 87 saying, "I can look in any direction and see 40 things that I have mastered, overcome, accomplished, created. I am QUEEN OF ALL I SEE. Young, cartoonishly-handsome male servant, fetch me my hot chocolate!"

At least, that's how I used to picture it.
It's starting to slowly dawn on me that my Grandma had figured out a lot more than I have.
Doing things. Wanting to do things. Those things are hard for someone with pretty major depression and anxiety. But this last year, a chubby little hand has reached up and held my nose to the grindstone. I've worked harder, under harder conditions, than I've ever worked before. I've cried with my head resting on a chubby little belly as my anxiety washed over me, wave after wave of cold terror churning through me. I've been dowsed in hot, salty baby tears on sleepless nights, when I'm the only one whose rocking embrace can bring calm. I've laughed along with sudden, unexpected gales of giggles, laughed so hard that I've cried. And I've felt deeper, more grateful, exquisite joy than ever before in sharing an imperfect life with an imperfect (but still very, very perfect) baby.

I'm seeing that there's more to life than having done things.
So I've decided to embrace the process of achieving my dreams. Face the mundane with a smile on my face, or at least a complaint that makes people laugh. Sweep the kitchen floor more than once the whole year. In short, become a better Anne.

And since I wanted to become a serious writer this year, I've decided to share it all with you.