I recently went to the doctor for my annual physical. This is an appointment that I dread keeping and for some stupid reason, this year I scheduled it for 3:30 PM on a Friday afternoon, maybe I was thinking my doctor would be on time since it was almost quitting time and maybe she had a happy hour to get to.
There are a few reasons that I’m really not too excited about this process of getting poked and prodded, the endless questions about any aches and pains, my diet, exercise and bathroom habits. My annual physical ranks right up there with bathing suit shopping, you gotta get pretty much naked for both activities. The part I dread the most about going to the doctor is the dreaded scale, now it’s not exactly what your thinking, I’m always reluctant to step on that scale and see how many pounds I’ve put on, and at my doctor it’s the first thing they do. “Hi, how ya doin’ step right up here on the scale please!”. I bearly have time to take off my shoes, all of my jewelry and anything else that may add a few pounds, how come they don’t let you get naked for this part? Up I step, the nurse inches the little bar over, and over and over a little more, please don’t give up and go to the 5lb weight, I’m holding breath because somehow that will make me lighter. “Okay, got it” she says and I start to get off the scale ‘cause I don’t want to be on that thing any longer than I have to. Then she tells me she needs to get a height measurement. WTF?! A height measurement? I don’t think I ‘ve been measured for real in a doctor’s office since I was 12 and I think that’s officially when I stopped growing. I reluctantly step back up in the scale, nice and straight and tall, just like when I stood in the rollercoaster line, hoping I’d make the minimum height requirement to get on the ride. I find myself holding my breath again, will this make me taller, probably not. “57 inches”, she announces very matter-of-factly. Now not being a math wiz, especial with my twelve times tables, I step down, slip on my shoes, jewelry and all the stuff I hastily took off and I’m trying to do the math in my head. 57 inches, that’s 4-foot flippin’ 9! Ah, now I know I’m short and I’m not getting any younger so that’s probably why they measured me, yikes! I’ve always said I’m 4’10”, no more double digits. I was a little sad about no longer being in the double digits.
When I got home and announced to my family that I was 4’9” they did not react with the same shock and disappointment that I did. My husband said that the good news is that I was already 4’9” (he has been telling me that for years) so I wasn’t shrinking yet, ugh! Well, I guess that was the good news and the rest of my appointment went well, so that’s definitely a plus! Short but mighty, shortgirls rule!