3 minute read
ON THE PORCH WITH PATTI
By Patti Parish-Kaminski, Publisher
Choose Your Battles Wisely
woman on a diet is nothing to be trifled with, especially a southern woman. It’s a hard, laborious, painful, ugly process this diet thing. It brings out the worst in women. Just look at the word. The first three letters spell D-I-E. What does that tell you?
I have been on a diet since June. It has been a long, long, long four months. I’ve shared this process with my friends who have tried oh so hard to be positive. They have used words like “journey” and “transition period.” It’s all I can do to not slap the taste out of their mouths every time they try to compare the torture I have endured for over 120 days to a “journey.” Sure, if water boarding is a journey, then that’s exactly what I’ve been on. And transition? Am I morphing from full-grown and sassy to thin and pleasant? Lord I hope so, but let’s not put money on it.
So, when I went to my doctor a couple of weeks ago to check on my progress, I was prepared. I strategically scheduled an early morning appointment. Everybody knows you weigh less in the morning. Not one thing other than toothpaste and a couple of sips of water to take my meds crossed my lips before arriving at said appointment. My clothing choice was equally as strategic. I wore a thin, cotton, knee-length dress and removed at least 75% of my daily jewelry. I contemplated undergarments and strongly considered doing without, but Mother’s voice kept reminding me what if I got in an accident, so I left the minimal requirements intact.
It was raining that day so I donned rubber boots that could easily be removed. I knew the drill. I would have to face the scale first thing. The last appointment I did inquire if I could simply give the nurse a number in lieu of hopping on the dreaded device. She promptly refused my proposal. A girl’s gotta try.
By the time my name was called, my pressure was up. I knew I was down 16 pounds. I could prove it. I had records. So, I marched to the contemptuous contraption, put my purse on the floor and began negotiating. “Can we agree that my boots weigh at least six pounds or should I remove them?” I asked the nurse. “Six pounds minimum,” she readily agreed. I instantly fell in love with my new BFF.
I marched to the exam room with a spring in my step. I knew I had achieved greatness. And my new BFF was clearly on Team Patti. It was going to be okay. My tiny little doctor walked into the room and reviewed my chart. “I see you’ve lost 13 pounds,” she exclaimed. “That’s good, but it seems like you did better a few years ago. Are you still walking?” I calmly explained I was indeed down 16 pounds regardless of what her records said as I had been meticulous about my record keeping. She just shook her head, and said, “No, it’s just 13 pounds.”
That’s when I lost my ever-lovin’ mind. “I assure you it’s 16 pounds,” I strongly and succinctly declared. “And I will strip naked right here, walk down that hall and get on that scale again to prove to you that I have lost 16 pounds.” Now I was serious as a heart attack. She just looked at me rather stunned until I began pulling my boots and socks off. That got her moving. She inquired if we could meet in the middle at 14 and a half. I stared her down and commenced to stripping. Let’s just say my chart was summarily adjusted to a 16-pound weight loss, and her sweet nurse, my new BFF, was spared from seeing me au natural.
See y’all next week – on the porch!
Battlefield ready – with liquid courage in tow.
