Monday afternoon, I had the annually dreaded lady exam. As my husband dropped me off at the office and headed to the mall with the children, I reminded myself it could be worse. Last year, I'd had to take all three of them with me, and they were all behind the curtain pretending not to watch the pap smear--which the doctor couldn't do until she'd gotten sterile instruments, because my kids had used them for light sabers while I'd watched helplessly from the cold, vinyl table--afraid to move because I was dressed in nothing but those awful paper clothes.
Breathe. Forgive the terribly long sentence, but some things you just have to get out before horror and embarrassment re-encapsulate them forever. Speaking of horror and embarrassment, here I was a year later, dressed in the paper clothes again. At least the Navy seems to have upgraded the situation a little. At this office I get a paper gown AND a paper sheet to lay on my lap. I couldn't figure out which way the gown was supposed to go, so I just put it on in the way that felt most awkward and figured that was right. Yep. Good intuition.
Oh yeah. I was styling. The nurse had said I could leave my socks on (how generous of her), and so there I was, swathed in paper, sporting my purple and teal leopard print knee socks. Carefully I stepped up to the examination table, situated my behind between the stirrups, and RIIIP! Apparently, Le Thick Madame had wrapped the paper gown too snugly about her full-bodied glory, and now the gown was open in the front and in the back.
I think they do it on purpose--the Medical Mission Mafia (MMM), that is--they absolutely make those gown a small size on purpose. That way, if you don't get the hint about your weight by standing on their little scale in the hallway, you have to get the point when you're gown don't fit. All right MMM, why don't you just put little pointy white hoods on your lab coats while your at it. They'd look great with your purple nitrile.
All right, I know I'm probably being over dramatic (who me?), as I actually really like my doctor. She's about my mom's age and has raised four kids of her own. She's a believer and we have similar values, which makes her a great sounding board. She's also the only doctor I've ever had who hums a happy tune during a pap smear. It takes a truly, um, special, person to SING while wrapping an index finger around a chick's collar bone and scraping her tonsils.
She even complimented my socks.
So why am I writing about all of this? Well, cruelly, the scale at the doctor's office said 187.5. That was a full 6.5 pounds HEAVIER than my scale at home. I've been doing really well with my eating, which I discussed with Doc Happy (I can't tell you her real name, or EVERYONE will want her to sing during their pap smear!). And "I've been TRYING to exercise," I told her.
She hit me with a Yoda. "Do, or do not. There is no try."
Arg. I had gotten into such terrific shape before my last pregnancy, I'd forgotten about all the hard and painful work it took to get there--all the grunting, and sweating, and aching, and hurting. I've been out running a few times over the past couple of weeks, but I can barely keep it up for 20 minutes. The next day I feel like I've been run over by a Zamboni. The day after that, I feel like I've been run over by a space shuttle. Call me crazy, but I think it's a natural human inclination not to seek out that kind of pain again.
I know, I know. No pain, no gain. This week, I'm trying to shake a head cold, but as soon as I don't feel like I have brick between my eyes, I'll get it together. I'll suck it up. I'll put on my big girl pants. With my knee socks. And next year, my paper clothes will fit.