Not That Word

It's time for my yearly physical. Oh, how I love that trip to the Doctor's office. My Doctor likes to torture me, not once, but twice. The first session is the dreaded PAP and breast examination. Then, he sends me away for blood work. I then go for a follow up to discuss the results of the blood test. Or so I think. And before you know it, I'm undressed on the table again. Only this time, my giant rear end is up in the air and I am being poked and prodded again. The next time I see my boyfriend do 'the shocker' for a photo op, it will have a whole new meaning for me.
So, as if the whole vulnerable 'poking' isn't torture enough, there's always the looming scale to add to the torment. I love being weighed in front of people. Doesn't everybody? I have struggled with my weight my entire life. I have been up and down on the scales so many times, that a doctor once told me to just "pick a weight and stick to it". It's healthier to be fat and consistent, then it is to fluctuate so drastically. It does make sense. I have been doing well in the last few years, at maintaining the weight that I am. It's not the weight that I want to be at, but it is what it is. In fact, every year during my physical, I have gone down a couple of pounds. Slow and steady wins the race. The last time I was at the Doctor, he pointed out that I am now almost out of the OBESE category. ALMOST OUT?...I shriek. I have used all kinds of terms to describe my size. Chubby, valuptuous, pleasantly plump, a little overweight. But OBESE!? How can I possibly be obese? I know it's just very generalized 'medical terminology', but when someone tells you you are obese, there is no rationalizing. No. Rationalizing. I have to hold back my tears. And believe me. When I get in my car, there is not holding back.