My Weight Watchers Journey, Vol. 3, Doctor Jelly Finger's Wild Ride

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Before starting any diet or exercise program, you should consult with your doctor.

 

I recently had my annual physical at the Thornton Medical Center’s Clinic at 120^th and Colorado Boulevard. Actually, this would be the physical that I skipped last year because I knew my doctor was going to give me “the look”. “The look” results from yet another year passing without me changing my lifestyle to the extent that my abdominals resemble a washboard and not the eastern seaboard. Doctor Segall looks like Wilford Brimley’s much younger, much fitter brother, wears a bowtie, and can smell bulls*** three miles away. For instance, responding to the pre-appointment questionnaire on which I maintained that Judy and I were still walking a mile and a half three times a week, his typical response might be, “Wow. I didn’t know your fridge was that far from your couch.”

 

It’s not that I’m any thinner this year. We scheduled the physical this year because my wife will get a reduction in our health insurance through her employer if I participate in their wellness program. The physical actually started before the physical with the preparation. As blood work and such was being done, there was fasting to do. Also, there was the urination plan. My appointment was at 1 p.m. I needed to drink enough to perform; however, I didn’t want to blow my wad too soon, so to speak. I decided to take a bottle of water with me, and that seemed to do the trick.

 

There was also the weigh in strategy to think of. The dreaded weigh in is always one of the low points of the visit. I decided to go with light shorts, a t-shirt, and flip flops, and just carry my wallet and keys. That way, at zero hour, I could ditch the shoes and the personal items and go for the lightest weight possible. Next up was the urine sample and the first of two blood pressure readings. I really enjoy the ¼ cup container they give me to pee into after I’ve holding it for an hour and a half. My typical strategy is to straddle the toilet and go straight from cup to bowl without stopping. A guy trying to stop in mid-stream is like a hitter in baseball making a check swing. It’s not usually pretty, and in extreme cases can result in muscle strain. I was surprised, by the way, when my doctor told me there wasn’t any sugar in my urine. I figured that with my physique, my urine was probably syrup.

 

The next part of the exam began with the three words that strike fear into the hearts of even the burliest men; “Drop your pants.” These will quite often be followed by “Turn your head and cough, please.” Meanwhile, all I can come up with is something like, “Say, doc, how about those Rocks?” This is usually while thinking something along the lines of, “Note to self; get doc a hand warmer for Christmas.” The next phrase, followed by the loud snap of rubber against flesh, can almost make me cry; “Now, turn around, bend over and put your elbows on the table.”

 

Let me walk you through this:

 

Doctor: “You’re going to feel some cool jelly and some pressure.”

 

“Some pressure?” I think. There is a lump in my throat that I thought was my Adam’s apple, but in reality, is my prostate. Doc’s finger is so far up my coal chute, I’m tasting rubber.

 

Doctor: “Now bear down like you’re moving your bowels.”

 

I bore down with enough force to crack a walnut and thought to myself, “Doc’s got strong fingers for a wiry little guy.” I also started to think that this was the actual reason they had me fast before the physical. If I had bore down like that with a batter in the on deck circle, doc would have wished he’d worn a hazmat suit to the physical. I also started to strongly consider getting a tattoo one my right buttock with an amusement park type sign with a quarter inch dot on it and text stating “Your finger must be no wider than this dot in order to enjoy this ride.” After all, that was how I picked my doctor. When the receptionist asked me which doctor I wanted for the first physical, I told her to line them all up and pick the one with the smallest fingers.

 

Doctor: “Everything looks good. Here’s a tissue to wipe off the jelly.”

 

He hands me something resembling a tissue, only smaller. “You’ve seen my butt, right?” I think as I try to clean an area the size of Alaska with something the size of Rhode Island. I spent the rest of the time until I get home dealing with that “not so fresh feeling”. I was also slightly put off by another guy looking at my hairy man hole and saying the words “Everything looks good”. I decided to take it as a compliment and move on.

 

Now, I realize I’m preaching to the choir here, as far as the women are concerned. From what I understand, during a typical woman’s office visit, she can expect to be smashed, poked, and prodded with everything from fingers, hands, wrists, forearms, and/or heavy machinery. And from my own personal experience with childbirth, I can verify that any concept of modesty will be totally forsaken for a woman after this life altering event. I know from the birth of my two kids that roughly half the hospital staff will, at one time or another, come in to inspect the expectant hoo haw. It would not have surprised me to see the janitor come in for a look.

 

“Hey you with the broom; how does this look to you?”

 

“Angry. Extremely angry.”

 

The rest of the physical was a blur of nurses trying to get blood, flu shots, and trying to look like I was actually absorbing the doctor’s advice that for the last four years seems to have gone in one ear and out the other.

 

Oh well. One last sports metaphor should some it up nicely: Just wait till next year.