Damn! I'm Old!

This will soon be me!

So, yesterday I had to do something that I am pretty sure is universally dreaded by all women, whether they live in Atlanta, Naples, or Tokyo: I had to go to my yearly “lady doctor” appointment. Now, I call it my lady doctor appointment because saying the word “gynecologist” makes me feel bad, and gives me anxiety, plus, I never underestimate the power of a good euphemism to diffuse social awkwardness. Typically, I never discuss such appointments with anyone except my doctor and, maybe my mom or one of my sisters-in law, so social awkwardness is not an issue, but this appointment is worth mentioning to the masses. Please don’t get any ideas, though. I’m not pregnant or anything, and if I were I would love to find out how I managed that, considering the most romantic evening I’ve had in the past year and a half was the night my cat, Charlie, sat on my chest while I was watching TNT, and looked lovingly into my eyes whilst purring.

Yesterday morning I went in to the doctor’s office waiting room and signed in on the little clipboard, and then filled out the paperwork that asked so many personal questions that I felt a little bit violated afterward. Then I still had to do the sign-in kiosk, where I had to scan my driver’s license and my insurance card, and, after that I still had to go to the little bathroom right off the waiting room and pee in a cup. Basically, after completing all of the steps in the sign-in process, I am pretty sure I had been so thoroughly vetted that I could then be nominated as a Supreme Court justice, or that I could become an NSA agent, or something. After waiting 45 minutes because my doctor, bless her heart, though incredibly sweet and smart, is always running approximately 243 hours behind in her daily schedule, the nurse called my name. She brought me to the back,, and I had to do the dreaded weigh in.

Now, if you read my post Why You Should Never Run Out ofWeight Watchers Points, then you know how I feel about anyone knowing how much I weigh, and my even bigger dread of being weighed in public. Yesterday morning I had put on what I consider to be my lightest outfit: yoga pants and a thin t-shirt with a minimal bra. Oh, and flip flops, which I planned to remove before stepping on the scale. As I approached the scale I noticed the woman ahead of me who was standing on the scale and who, I might add, was about 8 and ½ months pregnant, weighed 141.2 pounds. I remember a time when I weighed 141.2 pounds, vaguely. It is rather fuzzy in my head, though, as I believe it occurred in junior high school. I commented to my nurse that, I could weigh 141.2 pounds too, if I laid only my right thigh on the scale. She told me to remember that the woman on the scale was a beanpole, and not to compare myself to her. That made me feel a little better.

So, I got on the scale and I weighed, well, not 141.2 pounds. I weighed something in the neighborhood of what 141.2 pounds would weigh if you placed about 2,000 five-pound bags of sugar on the scale with it. But, I was actually happy. “I have lost 42 pounds!” I proudly exclaimed to the nurse, as my most recent two pound loss had come to my attention that morning when doing my Weight Watchers weigh in. The scale in the doctor’s office actually weighed two pounds heavier than the scale at my house but the general rule with scales is that, when faced with two conflicting weights, you always go with the lighter of the two. The nurse congratulated me, and we discussed the awesomeness of Weight Watchers, and also how, on such a humid day, you shouldn’t even bother doing anything to your hair in the morning, because you will just end up looking like Carrot Top ten minutes later anyway. (This conversation made me feel better about going to my appointment with crazy hair and no makeup.)

Well, I went back into the room, wrapped up in the sheet, and waited for another 250 minutes for my doctor to come in. I like that my doctor gives you a huge sheet to wrap up in rather than a little gown, because I feel more like a normal human being, and less like someone trying to run between the shower and the bedroom with guests in the house, while covering up only with a hand towel. The doctor came in, asked me pertinent questions about my life, congratulated me on my weight loss, and then the unpleasantness commenced. I won’t go into any detail here, because I know all of you ladies out there know exactly what I am talking about. For you gentleman, I will just say that getting poked and prodded at the lady doctor is a lot like having three or four prostate exams back-to-back in front of a live studio audience. In other words, not fun.

The part of the visit that is so noteworthy did not even occur in the exam room, but rather afterward, when I got dressed, went into my doctor’s little office, and sat in front of her desk. She was very pleasant, as usual, and told me about how everything looked normal, I was on the right track with weight loss, and I was doing great. But then, and I was so unprepared for this, she nonchalantly pushed a white paper across the table toward me with a highlighted phone number on it, and told me it was time for me to get a mammogram. I felt like I had been hit in the face by Rocky Balboa himself! A mammogram?! Me?! I stated that I didn’t think people as young as I am needed to get mammograms, and she gave me the bad news that I need to get one at age 35, and that, at age 40, I will have to get them every year.

At that particular moment in time I realized that I am officially old. Pretty soon I will be eating dinner at 4:30 PM, and drinking a Metamucil martini every night. I mean, a mammogram. That’s something that your mom or your grandma has to get, and, when you reach the point that a doctor is looking you in the face and using that word, and telling you that you have to get one—well, that’s like having your own personal welcome party to the 35-44 age box. Only without cake. Or presents. Or anything else remotely fun.

After my doctor’s appointment, I went with my mom to eat at Willy’s Mexicana Grill because, since I clearly don’t have many years left, I might as well enjoy a delicious burrito bowl! We almost had to park far away, and I am lucky we did not because I haven’t yet had time to purchase a cane, and such a long trudge from the car door to the entrance of the restaurant might just have done me in. So, to all of you out there who are in my age box: I get it. And to all of you who are still lounging in that 25-34 box,or, even in the 18-24 group: enjoy the time you have left. Because one day, sooner than you think, someone will be looking you in the eye and telling you you

need a mammogram.

Image courtesy of http://www.ideachampions.com/weblogs/archives/2011/02/86_year_old_lad.shtml