Doctor's orders—no more black clouds

When I'm in a pessimistic mood, I think there must be a black cloud hanging over me this semester. . . after all, the semester started with death, was followed by illness, and now—after a brief respite over spring break—has been followed by yet again another illness.

Yes, I am sick for the second time in six weeks.

But I'm in an optimistic mood today (brought on by lots of new miracle drugs), so I'm not even thinking about the black cloud and instead am going to choose to focus on a spring-like forecast—I'm getting better by the second and, by Monday, I will feel like myself again for the first time in over a month.

(If I keep saying it, maybe it will come true.)

Still, in order to get to this place of optimism—and secure previously mentioned miracle drugs—I had to go to a place of fear and loathing: the doctor's office

Nobody likes to go to the doctor, but truthfully, I have amazing two doctors—my girl doctor and my GP. The latter, who I saw today, is smart and funny. He also reads YA books with his teenager daughters and likes to make nerdy Star Trek jokes with my husband. That makes me like and, more importantly, trust him.

Also, he is current on everything, which makes me happy. Except, that is, when he tells Dave that new research shows it's good for him to drink two—not just one—beers a day.

(Our fridge already has too much beer in it anyway.)

But no matter how much I like my doc, I was just not up for another visit to sick-ville today. I've been coughing since the beginning of February and this would be my third visit to the Medical Center in just as long. I simply did not want to go.

And it showed.

Because while I was there, my old insecurities reared their ugly head, which of course was ugly and uncomfortable.

This happened after my examination, but before we had left the examining room.

Since he had the opportunity while we were there, Dave asked the doctor if he was due to have his cholesterol checked, and for some reason, this made me furious.

"You don't need to have your cholesterol checked!" I insisted even though I had been too sick to speak a moment before. "You're a freaking model of health."

"But I want to stay on top of it," Dave explained. "I have bad genes."

"My God, look at you!"

Later, after we got home, I apologized to Dave, explaining that I'm just not comfortable with him being so obsessed with his health. I even admitted that sometimes it makes me feel bad about myself.

"You're in great health," he said. "I mean, except for being sick. And you can't assume I'm healthier than you are just by looking at me."

But the truth is no matter how much I'm told that I'm healthy, I still look at other people—Dave included—who are thin and think they've got one up on me. I still feel as if at any moment I'm going to find out I'm dying of some weight-related disease and my doctor is going to tell me—wait for it—that I have to go on a diet or some ridiculous thing like that.

The truth is that I'm insecure. Not about how I look. But about my health.

At the doctor's office today, we found out that the number that determines if you're pre-diabetic has been lowered. And even though I'm not in that category or anywhere near it, sometimes it just feels like we're all fighting a losing battle. That every time you accomplish something with your health, you are met with a new challenge.

Oh, you lost ten pounds? Great, now you need to lose ten more.

Oh, you cut out trans fats? That's good because now you need to cut sugar.

I know I started this post by saying I'm feeling optimistic, and I am. (As it turns out, my tests showed there's nothing wrong with me except a bad sinus infection.) But I wasn't in a good space earlier today, and I guess my point is that it's normal to have moments when you feel like everyone is out to get you—or at least tell you to drop a few pounds.

I guess that's part of body acceptance too—knowing that you'll never entirely let go of those issues. Especially when a black cloud has spent more than its fair share of time in your atmosphere.

Woe is me

I hate to admit it, but I’m feeling a little angry these days.

I’ve been sick for ten—yes, ten—days now. Not only does that mean I feel like crap all the time and am behind on everything in my life, it also means that I haven’t been working out. And haven’t been cooking.

Sure, Dave cooks too, but it’s a much bigger job if only one person is in the kitchen, so we’ve been cutting corners—eating more frozen and prepared foods, which I know is awful for both of us.

And even after I recover, things won't be that much better for me. After all, what do I have to face? A body that has barely moved for a week and a half? Great! That means it’s going to hurt like hell when I get back out on the walking trail, and I really don’t want to face that nightmare.

On top of that, I find myself feeling a bit of resentment about my exercise history because of what I see happening to others. Over the past year or so, a number of people I know have caught the fitness bug. And when say they’ve caught the fitness but, I don’t mean they’ve come back to it. I mean, I know a handful of people right now who have just started working out FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME in their lives.

Sure, that’s a good thing, right?

It should give me reason to celebrate—More people are healthy! Hurray!

Well, you'll have to excuse me if I'm not jumping for joy.

Yes, I should feel happy about these converts, but for selfish reasons I don’t, and here’s why—all these people who have just started working out are seeing results MUCH faster than me.

If you’ve been sitting on your butt for thirty-five years and suddenly hit the gym, your body is going to notice and notice big.

But except for the six months after I got married, I’ve been working out my ENTIRE life, which is why I think I’m entitled to feel a little jealous when the newbies start dropping pounds faster than the stock market crashed in 2006.

I’m also jealous of the fact that the newbies have no injuries to hold them back. Since they’ve spent their whole lives couch surfing, they haven’t had any opportunities to get injured. And their bodies have been cushioned for so long that they don’t have as much wear and tear as mine.

The result is that the newbies can still do the kind of intense exercise—like running—that really burns the calories, things I had to give up years ago because of the knee I blew out skiing, the shoulder I wasted hitting backhands, and the elbow I destroyed returning 90-mph serves.

So, yeah, I’m jealous. I’m even a little pissed. And I think I have the right to be.

But if you think that means I’m giving up, you’re wrong.

And as soon as I stop hacking up lungs and my nose stops running, I'm going to prove it.