Being Fat: Chapter 3
Fat at the Doctor’s Office
Throughout the course of my life, one question has always been a huge mystery to me. It’s one I’ve sat and pondered many times: “Do thin people enjoy going to see their doctor?” It’s easy to picture the skinny minnies skipping through the front door of the office with a confident pep in their step. Fresh off a restful night’s sleep free from snoring, apnea, and night terrors about intermittent fasting. Wearing pants with a waist size that begins with a “3” instead of a “4.” Oh, how glorious and rewarding all that must feel. You know the type. Boldly stride from the waiting room into one of those barren holding cells that doctors love so much, fresh from a breakfast featuring steel-cut oatmeal, Trop 50 orange juice, and the ability to look at themselves in the mirror without disgust and remorse. Lord knows that’s a meal I’ve never tasted, unfortunately.
Seriously, why won’t doctors hang a framed photo on one of the walls of those rooms with the beds covered in long stretches of tissue paper? Perhaps a nice landscape of the beach or maybe even a horse standing in a meadow? Would requesting an MC Escher or an Ansel Adams would be too much?! Hell, even a life-size rendering of Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs tucking his shvantz back between his buttcheeks would be preferable over the customary barren putty-colored walls. I’ve eaten plain rice cakes with more personality than an examination room at my doctor’s office. Well, that’s not true. I’ve never eaten a plain rice cake. At least, not willingly. The point is that it certainly feels like this might all be blandness with intent. They want you to feel like you’re in trouble while you sit and wait. As if this isn’t a service you called and made an appointment for. The same service requires insurance that costs you an arm and a leg. Oh no, no, no. You’re here to be taught a lesson.
The whole thing feels punitive. These actions are penance that must be paid for your wayward ways and back alley dietary dealings. It’s more similar to a hearing with one’s parole officer or a court-mandated psychiatrist than a visit with a healer. We all know the deal, don’t we?! “This asshole likes to eat, so whatever you do, don’t have a framed photo of a serial killer dressed in drag hanging on the wall, or you may rile up the occupant! So what if Jame Gumb’s sherpa-lined dressing gown and shredded abdominals might be more interesting to our visitors than a poster featuring the seven symptoms of cardiac arrest?! Fuck ‘em! These fat bastards need to learn the hard way, and that DON’T include provocative wall art!” Anyway, that’s how I imagine Doctor’s office interior decorating meetings tend to unfold.