A post in which I have my follow up with the doc

So I went to the doc this morning. I was feeling much better. She told me that my CAT scan was 100% normal, rather than finding a tumor. Or rocks. Or a mysterious void. (I’m thinking about getting a second opinion on the scan). She also said that I was fat (which wasn’t exactly a surprise), and that my blood pressure was border line for high (which probably shouldn’t have been a surprise, but which was anyway). She’s given me three months to lose 20 pounds or she’s putting me on blood pressure medication. Heavy sigh. And so begins the slippery slope.

I’m really bummed about this. I had thought that if I tried to eat better and not gain so much weight that I could avoid the long list of health problems Dad has. But apparently the pull of genetics is just too strong. I am skeptical about this proposed weight loss lowering my bp. For one thing, the shape isn’t all that is genetic. The temperament is also. As much as I try to fight it, I have a good portion of my dad’s bad temper. For another thing, Little Boots and the Canadian Witch seem to be having a contest lately to see who can introduce more creative hell to my life. I think trying to hold my temper in may even be making things worse. But despite some notable exceptions of late, I am for the most part non-ballistic. But that isn't something that's going to change. I also think if I could just “drop 20 pounds” I would have done it by now.

Which brings me to the next thing. It seems that whatever compromise I make, it leads to another. I have been off men lately, and actually that hasn’t sounded so bad. I’ve been thinking that if I am off for good (and this isn’t just the aforementioned hibernation), then I can accept that. The re-channeled energy I spend chasing tail alone should generate a novel or two. Yet I find the thoughts of going on blood pressure medication and thereby indirectly ending my sex life for good inescapably depressing. I realize that I certainly can’t complain about not having had a good run. I wouldn’t mind a little peace and quiet from the insistent refrain of desire for a while (indeed, I was looking at that as a fringe benefit of getting older), but I find that I’m not ready to say “never again” just yet.

I feel that I’ve just finally made (a however grudging) peace with my body, only to find that said size is gonna kill me if I don’t do something about it. That hardly seems fair. And I just found FOUR pairs of jeans that fit me too. I suppose I should have known that was one of the seals of my personal apocalypse without being told.

But I didn’t have brooding time really. I had to get to work. So I did. Work was blessedly quiet today. Thank God.

About quitting time, Russ called to tell me that Joanne and Rob had come in tonight (not tomorrow as I had been thinking) and that they wanted to get together. Of course I said yes.

Rob said he wanted seafood, and for some reason Russ headed towards Greer. We ended up going to The Tadpole, of all places. Joanne, being a typical Yankee in many ways, was underwhelmed. Going to the fish camp is kind of a southern thing.

But everyone ate and listened to Joanne as we did it. They didn’t have any vegetables except potatoes and cole slaw (being extremely hard core, The Tadpole doesn't boast a salad bar see below), but I didn’t do too badly. I had the ‘small’ plate, which consisted of: two broiled possibly flounder fillets, an enormous baked potato (of which I ate half), hush puppies, and cole slaw. The only thing I could figure was that it was, indeed, piled up onto a smaller plate. Meh. It’s better than what I would have eaten usually. My mouth was just watering for somethin’ fried, I can tell you. Being at the fish camp and not getting something fried is kind of like jumping in the water and refusing to get wet. But I didn’t do it.

(OK, I've looked it up, and wikipedia doesn't have a definition for fish camp. For non-southerners, allow me to interpret. A fish camp is kind of the redneck equivalent of a sugar shack {an traditionally unlicensed bar usually run out of someone's house}, except they don't serve alcohol. It's a typically backwoods country restaurant that primarily serves seafood. The prices are usually cheap, and the food is typically fried. They usually started because the owner became the one always called upon to do the "fish fry" for the churches and stuff and finally decided to charge for it. Many were originally based out of private homes. There is usually a salad bar which will always have the following ingredients:

- pepperoni {It is just not a redneck Night Out with no pepperoni on the salad, for some reason. I don't make the rules, I just live here}
- cottage cheese {for Mamer's diet}
- shredded cheese {sometimes American, but usually cheddar, for those not on a diet}
- a couple of pale pitiful grocery store tomatoes for show {Only those in the throes of the most stringent diet will actually eat these. The appearance of these on some portly woman's plate gives her the officially sanctioned right to say "I try - you can see." [and point to salad bowl, mournfully] "My weight problem is just glandular. There doesn't seem to be anything I can do about it." This of course before demolishing a pile of fried shrimp that would stuff an average high school football team.}
- nasty chemically produced 'bacon' bits {Actually, the only remaining market for this food-like substance is the salad bar. If you know anything about food, you would never buy these; but if you're a redneck, these are too fancy to actually have in your home, but again denote a Night Out.}
- pickled hot peppers of some kind {To prove manliness. These can be anything from pepperoncini rings to homemade little round ones that look like deadly nightshade and may well precipitate the replacement of the singed drop flap on your long johns. Allows you to say "Hey ya'll, watch this." In a social setting that includes women with 'wash n' sets' without censure.)
- dill pickle chips {I don't know either}
-Pepperidge farm tiny croutons {There isn't any white bread in the restaurant to make croutons out of, if it indeed crossed anyone's mind to do so. Which it doesn't.}
- pineapple {for weird exotic eaters like me}
- a large plastic bowl of basic iceberg lettuce salad mix with red cabbage and carrots and nothing else {or in a hard core fish camp, iceberg lettuce only - don't worry, if you don't know what a fish camp is, you'd never find one of those}
- and always, always Thousand Island dressing {now being replaced by the ubiquitous Ranch in more typical restaurants, some redneck will start a riot of there is no Thousand Island on the salad bar at the fish camp.}

Apparently I need to do a wikipedia entry on this.)

I also told them the latest chapter in the family drama saga. While I was updating, the little voice in my head was saying 'If Dad heard you telling this, he would blow a gasket' loudly enough to make me look around. I thought I was safe. As we were walking up to pay, here came Dick and Eve - from the other side of the restaurant, fortunately. But I just know that couldn’t be good for my blood pressure.

After supper we went back to R&B’s for a little R&R. We ended up watching The Secretary. It's a great movie, and I hadn't seen it in long enough that I could watch it again almost as if it was the first time. Of course no one could forget the riveting scene near the end where she proves her devotion. Joanne had no patience with it though. She confessed later to not being a 'movie person' - hmm, not a huge shock. It was a nice evening though.