Toe Tag Sold Separately

"Are you a little nervous, sweetie?" my doctor asked, stethoscope pressed firmly into my giving skin. "Because your heartbeat is racing..."

"Well considering I thought I'd walk in here and you'd hand me my toe tag and give me a fast pass to the County Morgue - uh - yeah. I am." I heard myself say.

She laughed and continued her poking and prodding of my fleshy flesh and, like the preteen I am (not), I tried hard not to convey just how ticklish I am and instead focused on how I inadvertently matched my polka dot undies and bra to the half gown and drape I was provided which was a gorgeous shade of pepto-bismol pink.

"Okay - you can get dressed!"she said and ran out of the room as fast as her little five-foot-nothing frame could carry her.

Later, after dressing she asked me about what medications I was on.

"Well, nothing, really. I was on 'Seasonique' but it made me - bad. It was- bad. Evil. The Devil's Birth Control." I said, waving my arms in the air for emphasis. Then, realizing how insane I must look, dropped them back into my lap on top of my iPad (never leave home without it!).

"Okay... writing THAT down..." she made a few notations and then, the inevitable, "Let's see how you did on your blood work..."

"Terrible. Awful. Failed with flying colors of Awesomeless. Which way is the morgue, again?" were all things I was ready to say. But I kept my mouth shut - for once - and only slightly worried the strain of such an impossible feat would give me just the slightest of an aneurism.

"Well, your A1C shows that you're pre-diabetic, but we can get that under control..." And I fell outta my chair, mentally speaking.

"Seriously?PRE-Diabetic???" I interrupted the Doctor who I'm sure had nothing else to do but to sit and talk to a chubby girl who was questioning whether or not she had "The Sugars."

"Uh - yeah. You're not there - yet. But your cholesterol - okay, girl, you're at 233."

"That's bad, right? Like 'dead in three weeks' bad - or just kinda bad?"

"Like 'you're gonna have to watch it,' bad. But I think you can fix it. You're a smart girl."

Now, don't get me wrong - but in my experience the phrase "You're a smart girl" is usually preceded by the following:

1. An unmitigated, unrequested, unwanted, and undesired increase in work load.

2. A slight at one's intelligence based on the non-getting of a witty joke. As in "You're a smart girl. You'll figure it out."

3. A not so fun way of making sure you'll prove yourself capable and "smart" so that you will not disappoint the person in a position of authority (i.e. Mom, Doctor, Dentist, Butcher, etc.).

So with that I was sent on my way with a handful of prescriptions and then did what any girl would do - I shopped.

I bought "Missoni for Target" headbands, socks, a scarf and --- fittingly enough --- nuts.

And as I depart on this wacky journey of carb-counting and chol. watching - I can only hope that I am, in fact, a "Smart Girl" who can handle this added impediment of ickiness to her daily routine and who will not, I hope, end up face-down in a plate of homemade deep-fried Brie, a wilted Toe Tag clutched in her tiny, chubby, greasy hands...

To be continued... :)