This was originally posted on March 20, 2009 and, as I head to the doctor’s office for my 21-week checkup today, I cannot help but relive this all over again…
My heart starts pounding before my feet even hit the intimidating black platform. I hesitantly place a toe on it — then it dawns on me.
“Wait! Let me take off my shoes!” I tell the nurse standing beside the scale. She rolls her eyes impatiently.
Now, I am not an idiot. Not a COMPLETE idiot at least — although Patrick Dempsey would no doubt disagree, given the time he generously offered to let me sneak in front of him in the long line at Bristol Farms and all I could do was blush, giggle and utter something along the lines of “Ugh pwsyfgft youw fsst.” (Translation: “Oh no, thanks, you first.”)
But enough about my natural grace and composure.
As I was saying, I’m not a moron. I know my Steve Madden Mary Jane pumps weigh a grand total of one pound. But, my God, if I can shave something… anything… from my ever-growing poundage, you can be darn sure I’m going to do so. The nurse’s dubiousness be damned.
Why the hell is that? I am pregnant. Which means I am gaining weight — and that is a good thing. Not something of which to be ashamed unlike, say, my encounter with McDreamy. So why was I standing in my doctor’s office yesterday, seriously considering throwing my hoop earrings and cardigan on a pile with my shoes, and doing a few jumping jacks, before hopping on that freakin’ scale?
Sure, I could point fingers at society’s obsession with weight and of course, Nicole Kidman, who looked like she was never carrying more than a Skittle when she was pregnant. That’s a lot of pressure to place on us pregnant commoners. Damn you and your Baby Skittle, Kidman!
But honestly? I blame the anxiety on the Health-O-Meter. Oh, how I detest doctor’s scales. With my own digital scale, it’s like ripping off a Band-Aid: I step on it and it immediately reveals the damage. No head games. Just straightforward disappointment. A doctor’s scale, however, is akin to a torture device: I step on it and the nurse keeps sliding… sliding… sliding… the weight while I get closer... closer… closer… to having a meltdown.
“PLEASE! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOP! No, seriously — stop. Stop… now? Please…? PLEASE! How can that thing even go any higher?! *SOB*”
Worst of all, the nurse is loving every minute of it. Of this, I am certain. I swear she slides it as slowly as possible to maximize my mortification. Nurse Ratched ain’t got nothin’ on Nurse Weigh-In.
Time for an attitude adjustment on my part, I know. We pregnant ladies need to embrace our burgeoning figures. We are with child! We are beautiful! Glowing!
But really, a cardigan probably weighs, what, five ounces? At LEAST.