KCFM Delivery Partners

THE PARTY'S OVER!



the_partys_over
"Well, how did everything turn out?" asked my friend Carol, nice enough to remember that I had recently been in the doctor's office for some testing.

"Oh fine, I guess. My hopes for a 20 to 30 pound, non-malignant tumor have been dashed, so I'm a little bummed out," I replied, sighing heavily.

"But I do have a couple of 'fireballs of the eucharist'," I added, perking up as I recalled a phrase I heard was used by a patient in the emergency room who was referring to her "fibroids of the uterus." Maybe having those removed could shave off a pound or two.

"And at least I don't have 'smilin' mighty Jesus'," I said, lifting my brow and nodding my head as I thanked my lucky stars I didn't have "spinal meningitis."

Most people don't react this despondently to the news of good health, but you see, I kinda had my hopes up for one of those mysterious, non-life-threatening, 40 pound tumors you see on Gray's Anatomy.

It would have explained so much; mainly the growing girth of my mid-section. I knew I was having a wee bit of trouble a few months ago when I started losing sight of my knees as I looked down, but when I started losing sight of my feet, I really started to panic. Are my feet shrinking or was my gut growing? I thought as I frantically punched in the number of my internist to schedule a check-up.

But no. No mysterious masses or unknown causes of weight gain to be found.

"The party's over," I was informed as my doctor made a couple of notes on my chart.

"The party's over," I repeated incredulously, "but I'd like another piece of cake."

Then, to add insult to injury, the report my doctor handed me to read said I had a "fatty liver." That's just rude! Couldn't we use words like "curvy," or "pleasantly pump?" I asked my doctor.

That benign tumor-thing would have made weight loss so much simpler. No heavy weights to lift; no sweatin' to the oldies; no calories to count. I could just go in to the hospital, go to sleep for a bit, have 20 or 30 unwanted pounds surgically removed from my abdomen, then go home and have people do things for me for a week (or two, three, or seven) while I recover. Bada bing – the perfect weight loss plan!

Well, I guess since surgery isn't in the cards and I'm too old to join the Army (where I hear military rations and malaria pills can do wonders to deflate an expanding gut), it seems I'll have to get rid of this "unwanted belly fat," to borrow a phrase from a commercial you're probably just as sick of hearing as I am, the old fashioned way – exercise combined with that nasty, horrible four letter word: diet.

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