I got the call yesterday fat ladies await with salami-bated breath.
“We got the results of your blood work. You have hypothyroidism.”
Son of a bitch.
Since that word began to buzz, plumpies have played the thyroid card, the slow metabolism. Even Oprah claimed it. I am curious if kick starting the juices stalled in a gland in my neck will show on the scale and naked in the mirror. Bonus if treatment helps fight new fatigue and joint pain - thought I’d simply inherited crunchy knees from my Dad’s side. I’m miffed the condition has little to do with behavior I could change; it’s the first of the internal organs to wear out (my doc, however, theorizes a lingering and nasty viral infection last year may have played a part). It also means taking a tiny and sugary pill every day for the rest of my life.
I’m not a fan of medicating (with the exception of Pinot Noir and Grey Goose). A couple of Bayer is all I need on the roughest of days. A year ago I bid goodbye to the pill after 20 years of start-on-Thursday-over-by-Sunday regularity. I just don’t believe in pharmaceutically changing body chemistry long-term anymore.
On the plus side, I passed the “just checking” Chlamydia test with flying colors.
The diagnosis came the same week I took in a Sunday matinee of “Fat Pig”. This off-Broadway-to-Boulder stage play chronicles a short-lived and unlikely romance between an attractive guy with an upscale career and an amply endowed, Rubenesque…screw it, fat chick.
The female lead Helen, the fat pig in “Fat Pig”, is barely zaftig. She wears heels for Christ sake and would shop the low-end sizes at Lane Bryant. The more compelling visual would have been a can’t-hide-it-I-can’t-deny-it obese actress in the role. Conversation surrounding Helen always focused on size first, the apology for it, the acceptance of it. She had a jolly laugh and stuffed down hot dogs during an emotional encounter.
The male lead Tom, not that hot or hard. Smoldering in head shots, he acted it goofy and immature; in a shirtless beach scene, there’s definite moob. Supporting players were caricatures of the meanest kids on the playground. Would you seriously, even in the most private or judging moment, tell your best buddy he’s dating a “sow”? Brave Helen is finally torn down by Tom’s insecurities, exposing surprise vulnerability and admitting her shame, telling him she’ll change, really change, for him. If the cost of his love is surgery or stapling, she’s all in.
Having spent my formative dating years somewhere on the fat scale, I wasn’t worthy of the boys I wanted. They never looked. I never dated. When hormones bud and you’re not the girl the boys want to spend seven minutes in heaven with, sexuality ceases to exist. As an adult finally comfortable in my skin and vagina, in some sort of odd reverse discrimination, I like fit guys, men aware of appearance. It’s not looks, but caring enough about one's self to take care of oneself. To not be fat, one must eat less and exercise more. To be healthy, one must eat properly and exercise. Under the covers on a snowy morning is a better spot than out running a still slippery sidewalk, frosty breath escaping. A cocktail and “Friends” rerun often more appealing than burning quads on a spinning bike. I’d prefer salt and vinegar kettle chips over a handful of raw almonds every time. It’s choices, being better. Being all.
And now I have an honest to goodness doctor’s note.