So, I’m not sure why. When my doctor asked if I was experiencing any pain anywhere. I said no.
I have pain. Literally always.
Feet. Ankles. Knees. Shoulders.
But when she asked the question. The “no” flew out of my mouth before I could stop it.
And by the time my brain processed what I’d just said, she’d already moved on to my diet.
And that required some explanation. So I forgot about the pain question. Because of the growing look of stern disappointment on her face.
The consensus was that I have the food norms of a teenage boy.
And the metabolism of a middle aged woman.
Which probably explains the weight gain.
The weight gain that has caused every piece of clothing I own to Saran Wrap itself to my body.
Except for that one pair of sweatpants. That one perfect pair of sweatpants. Men’s sweatpants. But still…
And I won’t share which friend I had this particular conversation with. But when I texted saying the doctor told me I was ginormous. They assumed I was referring to my vagina.
Because that’s actually why I was at the doctor. For my annual physical.
But no. I was not, in fact, diagnosed with a cavernous vagina. Just a large BMI. And really shitty eating habits.
It got really weird until we realized we were having two very different conversations.
“Why would things fall out of…”
Oh god no. That’s not what-. Noooooo.
So, anyway. I sent out the SOS to J-Vicious.
About the overweight classification.
Not the other thing.
To be clear. It’s not ginormous. The doctor didn’t call my vagina ginormous.
And she actually didn’t call me, as a whole, ginormous, either.
But the weight. And the BMI. And the clothes…
So, I messaged Fall Risk and J-Vicious.
My clothes no longer fit. Fix me.
Which obviously led to some smartass comment about having to actually show up to the gym. And maybe eat a vegetable or two every now and then.
I’ll be there today.
And I was. There are today.
Because I can’t keep going into the bathroom just to unzip my pants so I can breathe for a minute. Or continually readjusting my bra because I’m falling out of all sides of it. Or carrying 17.8 extra pounds up and down the mountains.
And before y’all start grumbling about body image or throwing unnecessary reassurances at me. Let me be clear. I don’t think I’m fat.
I don’t hate my body.
(My body would like me to clarify here that I absolutely do hate her. As evidenced by all of the bullshit I put her through. North Fucking Mountain is on the schedule for this weekend. And she’s pissed. How you gonna say no to the pain question??? We always have fucking pain!!!!)
Aside from my just awful eating habits, I know I’m a pretty healthy individual.
But I’m uncomfortable in my clothes, and I’m heavier than my neglected legs are prepared to carry through next month’s ultra.
But first, I got in a nice little run before I left work.
It was unplanned.
And before I explain why I went for an unplanned run, I feel compelled to explain that there is nothing truly questionable on my phone. Not, like, full on nudity.
Perhaps some questionable Christmas Crew conversations. But those would really just confuse rather than offend an outside reader. Mostly.
And no truly questionable photos.
And Carlos has no idea what’s actually on my phone.
I just know that. At some point. He and Co-Worker B decided that I’m a “phone face down” kind of girl.
And that in and of itself is enough for Carlos to decide that he needs access to my phone.
And Carlos. Being the just really sneaky individual that he is. Has been plotting. For weeks. Creeping into my office when I’m at the fax machine. Setting up lookouts to warn him when I’m coming.
I went to the bathroom yesterday (to actually pee, not just to breathe) and as I was closing the door. I see Carlos. In my office. Pressed up against the wall trying to make himself invisible. Because he knows he’s not allowed in there unsupervised.
Because he’s always up to shit.
Just, when he walks on campus, I have a sudden feeling of unease wash over me.
Because I’m never truly safe. They’re always watching. Planning. Plotting.
Both of them…
So today. Carlos plotted so hard. As to get Co-Worker B and I to install a game app on our phones. Get us all together in my office. And start playing the game together.
And then. As I’m distracted waiting for him to play his card. He snatches up my unlocked phone. And takes the fuck off.
You do not need full access to my phone.
And he thought I wouldn’t run him down. Through the mud. Because I was wearing heels.
Fuck those heels.
Gimme back my phone.
Seriously. There’s nothing that bad on here.
He gave back the phone. When he realized that he’d overestimated how much I care about muddy heels. I’m just not that feminine.
And he didn’t have too much time to look through it.
So I didn’t beat him upside the head with anything.
And I went happily on to the gym.
For leg day.
And it was good.
Obviously I tried to ease back into it. And maybe go a little lighter on the weights.
Obviously J-Vicious isn’t gonna let that happen. And is gonna force heavier weights on me.
At one point. Towards the end of the workout. When my legs were good and exhausted. I was preparing to do my last set of weighted lunges.
And I stood there looking at two 20 lb weights. Well, I probably don’t need those.
So I looked up. Thinking I’d find where someone had dropped a couple of 10’s. Because 10’s at the end of the workout felt right.
Instead I make eye contact. With J-V.
And he’s just standing there.
At the 20’s.
Because I couldn’t argue with him. After I’d asked him to fix me.
I hate having to listen to him.
But I did it.
And then I dragged myself. Almost literally. Because leg day. Out to my car.
And drove into Vinton.
And made the turn at the McDonald’s.
Feeling full on guilt.
Head swiveling left and right.
Looking for OT.
And I don’t even know why.
Because I was going to the fucking Kroger.
To buy real food. Like vegetables and shit.
And I for real wandered up and down every aisle. Like a child who finally picked their shit up off the floor. Without being asked. And they’re looking around for someone to notice. And praise them.
OT wasn’t there.
So I’m letting y’all know.
I cooked a legit meal for myself. Like a for real grown human. And did not just have Doritos and tater tots for dinner.
I expect tomorrow’s clothes to feel pretty loose.
And for real. There’s nothing that questionable on my phone.