I think I am pretty realistic about my body. I am not presenting my inner Kate Moss to the viewing public, but I am not exactly Carnie Wilson on dollar day at Burger Heaven either. In my latest quest to return to my high school physique I have taken up running - well, not running exactly...more like cursing while moving quickly down the street.
Anyway, I have a long history of knee problems and after two surgeries I am a little nervous about screwing my knees up for eternity. Even after $100+ running shoes and 3 months of strength training specifically designed to firm up calves, hamstrings and quads I am still having a hard time keeping my knees on board with the marathon training regimen. I finally decided to go and see an orthopedic surgeon just to make sure I am not running myself right into a wheelchair.
I got a referral from my family doctor and made my appointment. I got my records sent down from the last ortho to hack on me and I was set to go. I went into the clinic all filled with optimism that I was going to be praised for my newfound attention to my health and given a pat on the back and a clean bill of health. Little did I know my self-esteem had approximately 31 minutes left to live.
I go back to an exam room with the perky little assistant and she asks me perky little questions and writes my answers down with her perky little pen and then she perkily announces that the x-tech will be right with me. The not quite so perky x-ray tech lumbers in and off we go for a round of pictures where I am forced to contort into bizarre shapes and then hold "very still" for what seems an eternity. X-rays done and off I go to wait for the doctor.
In he comes - firm grip, big biceps, white teeth. I wasn't sure if he was the doctor or if I was being Punk'd. Have you ever noticed that orthopedic surgeons always seem to look like NFL quarterback rejects? Do you think they have a medical school specifically for the pretty boys that didn't quite make it in pro sports? Nevermind...I digress...
So, the poster boy for Surgeons Who Pump Iron Magazine starts asking me questions...what kind of pain? when? where? how bad? how often? etc. He tells me how my x-rays look great and the last surgeon did a really great job. I am feeling pretty darn good at this point...no surgery! Yea me!
He asks about my activity level and I proudly begin to tell him how I have this trainer, blah, blah, blah and we are working on leg strengthening, blah, blah, blah and how I have lost 7% body fat and a whole pant size, blah, blah, blah and how I am training for a marathon, blah, blah, blah. See me? Proud little monkey...good monkey...monkey eat banana and swing from vine...
Oh yeah...this is where my self-esteem goes on to the next life...
Mister "I have big pecs" utters the following words...
"What are you doing coming in here at 6 foot and 230 pounds and telling me you are on a running program? That is the worst thing someone your size can do for their knees. Have you seen what runners look like? They don't look like you. When you can come in here at 6 foot and 155 then we'll talk about a running program. You should try swimming."
I'll pause here while you either pick up your jaw or stop laughing.
It's ok...I'll wait.
OK...picture me...too stunned to speak...stupid grin on my face and still on a high from my "I'm working out" speech and Dr. "You aren't a size 2 so you must be punished" walks out the door. His perky little assistant hands me a "prescription" that tells me to wear a knee support and to try swimming for aerobic exercise and then scoots her size 4 ass out the door.
I wanted to scream out into the hallway and say...Do you think I don't own a mirror? I buy my own clothes you Ass Goblin and I am perfectly aware they aren't a size 4. I get the fact that I need to shave some poundage off - THUS THE EXERCISE you pompous jackass. I spent the next few days formulating a strongly worded letter to him that basically said "thanks for the encouragement, Dr. 'Skipped Class on Good Bedside Manner Day.' Brace yourself 'cause all you did was piss me off and now I am even more determined to finish that marathon so the next time the pictures on your wall start to shake you sit back and rest easy in the knowledge that it is just my enormous girth pounding down the street and not an earthquake."
So...I'll stick to it and I promise to send everyone a pic from the finish line because I am going to do it. I will do it. That marathon is MINE!!!!
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