Friday, 22 January 2016

The BMI: I've Amassed Quite an Index







Yesterday was a banner day for me.
I finally got my consult with the plastic surgeon which will take place on March 14 at 1 p.m.
Nice.
That's the good news. The bad news was a follow-up phone call to the family doctor.
"The surgeon will not operate on anyone who has smoked in the last year," said the assistant.
No worries, I have been smoke free for 59 years.
"And she will not operate on anyone with a BMI (Body Mass Index) of over 30."
This got my back up. BMI is a great way to determine how much weight a person has to lose, but it doesn't take into account the fact that I'm wearing two bowling balls on my chest. In my opinion, that's equivalent to putting the fix in, throwing the game, handicapping the round.
I began to protest, but realized it was useless. Even without the 10 poundage on my chest, my BMI is still about 33, meaning I have to lose 35 or 40 pounds.
Yes, Virginia, I am obese, a fat ass, a lardo, a skeleton covered in masses of fat cells.
I have nice legs, though. I can give myself that.
After processing this information, I said, "Well, I can lose that weight before the surgery."
Of course, I can. I'm like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. I could have lost it all along but I needed a trip to Oz (Care Medics) to make me realize this fact.
As my Stupid Monkey Sister would say, "The light bulb has to want to change."
And I will, right after this lovely bottle of Chateau Timberlay and a couple ounces of Scotch.
I will start this all tomorrow.
Yes, I will.
I realize, of course, that I cannot lose 40 pounds in six weeks. I have gallbladder disease, which means whenever I diet, my gallbladder gathers stones that put me into stratospheric pain. A 10, I'm saying a 10.
I can't lose 40, but I can lose 20 before I see the surgeon, and I can lose another 20 before the surgery which will take place in about six months. The first 20 is a down payment on my future ability to play tennis. The second 20 will seal the deal.
I know how to do it. I've been a dieter my whole life.
It means changing my exercise regimen, adding weights, increasing my activity level, yadda, yadda. That's not a problem. On a clear day, I can row for ever.
Nope, I have two other problems.
One is that aside from the half hour I spend at the gym everyday, I don't do any other amount of exercise. I work at home. I nap between assignments. I watch television. I play video games. I get into the car and drive two blocks to the store.
It's typical lardo behavior. The most activity I do, other than go to the gym, is to take Jennette to her doctor's appointments and walk the length of Walmart to get my little cancer warrior a big tub of Carnation Instant Breakfast.
So that has to change, and change drastically. I'm going to have to bundle up and walk the dogs instead of punting them into a snowbank. I'm going to have to hoof it to Loblaws. I may even WALK the mile and a half to the gym. God Bless Me and the cartilage in my knee.
Even that's not the problem.
The real villain in the piece is what I put into my gob.
I'm very disciplined in the morning. I have a one egg homemade McMuffin with a tiny piece of cheese and a whiff of ham. I eat nutritious soups for lunch.
But then the Michelin Man returns home, and it's all over.
Scott cooks most of the meals, and they are delish. He is a gourmet of the first order, and whips up lovely dishes with a hint of green and yellow. Often, I plead with him to add in some spaghetti squash and a salad, and that only happens when I make that part myself.
And unfortunately meal prep time is right in the middle of Ellen and Power Play.
I can't blame Scott. I am an independent woman over 40 who can cook for herself.
But his meals are so much better than the ones I need to eat.
You see, I'm married to The Meat Man, the Grill King, Bobby Flay in a big man's suit.
That's right. Our dinners centre around a hunk of meat, a pound of potatoes or an army ration of rice.
We also drink a snootful, I can't lie. I love my red wine, and he loves his beer and Scotch.
It's been our ritual for nigh onto 13 years now, and that has to change.
Fiona and Shrek are going to have to become human again.
For me to lose the big 4-0, I have to stop drinking, and stop slurping the carbs into my gob at 7 p.m. every night.
That is gonna hurt.
It kept me up last night, so I punched Scott and woke him up for a confab.
"How am I gonna do this?" Molly asked Mike as we were laying in bed this morning. "I'm going to have to start paying eight bucks for cauliflower again.....and I have to quit drinking."
"Yeah, until you reach the 30 BMI, then you can start drinking again."
He rolled over, and went back to sleep without a care in the world.
Time to go to Al Anon.

(Viewer discretion is advised, but this is awesome!)



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