You can't eat like a pregnant woman
"You need to lose weight," my doctor said, looking at papers in a manila folder that revealed to him personal things like my blood pressure, medical allergies and the fact that there was a package of Ding Dongs in my house.
Two hundred years ago a witch wanting to curse me would have paid good silver for that kind of information. Maybe she still would.
"How much weight?" I asked. A lot like a student worried about a final exam, I needed to know how much effort I needed to put into getting an 'A.'
"Thirty pounds," he said. "How much do you exercise?"
"I chase my toddler around the house."
"Not enough," he said, shaking his head. "If your toddler were 6'5" and just as active, then you'd get plenty of exercise."
Wow, that's frightening.
"How much do you eat?" he asked.
"Well," I said. "My wife's pregnant, so ..."
"Oh, good Lord," he said, sitting back on his doctor's stool. "Then you're lucky the fire department didn't have to cut you out of your house. What kind of food is in your refrigerator?"
My refrigerator? Before pregnancy our refrigerator was home to healthy items like peas, corn, lima beans, broccoli, lettuce, mostly fat-free lunchmeat and something in aluminum foil we were afraid to unwrap. But once the two pink lines appeared on the little white Knocked Up Or Not? pregnancy test one morning, our refrigerator was suddenly full of ...
"Frozen pizza, ice cream sandwiches, microwave cheeseburgers and a special release of the game Candy Land made entirely out of fudge."
"Any vegetables?" he asked.
"Uh, do fish sticks count as a vegetable?"
He shook his head.
"No."
"Then we don't have vegetables in the house," I said. "But I think about them a lot."
He looked at the chart, checking out my levels of triglycerides, nutterbutterides and beer, beer, beer, whoo-hoorides.
"Do you have Twinkies on top of your refrigerator?" he asked, then held up his hand. "No, I don't want to know. Just seek out what is in your heart. In your case, probably plaque buildup."
The doctor scribbled something on a piece of paper and pushed it into my hand.
"You've eaten well before," he said. "I know you can do it again."
He walked out the door, leaving me sitting amongst copies of Redbook and a People Magazine recent enough to tip me off Michael Keaton was going to be the next Batman.
I eat well, I thought. I don't eat pasta, bread, rice, potatoes, fried food or spoonfuls of Crisco. It's just...
I read the note.
"Your wife's pregnant. Don't trust her. Don't question her. And don't eat anything she brings into your house _ ever."
I walked out of the doctor's office realizing my health was dependent on my will power versus the Tyrannosaurus-like eating drive of my pregnant wife.
My waistline is doomed.
