That doesn’t make him any more punctual than a GP mind you, although he has gotten better since the days I used to walk out on him for keeping me waiting an hour. Back then I’d wait for all the other hopeless cases like me to be seen by him only to get up and walk out minutes after sitting down in his office. It was like chess with he and I; a battle of strategy and wit.
Now days the wait is broken up by a few tasks that I have to do pre-consultation like blowing hard and heavy into a device that measures just how weak and feeble my lungs actually are. I do this three times and usually come very close to passing out, only to find my vital lung capacity has barely changed since the last time I was there. Talk about my iron lung.
Then I get weighed and it really is the money shot of the afternoon because it’s the most important of the lot, but not necessarily in a good way. It’s so important I will pucker my anus the entire morning leading up to the appointment, just so as not to loose a couple of hundred grams. I also have to try and remember if I had my keys and phone in my pocket last time because if so they should be weighed again. Hey every little bit counts.
Now those who know me will probably have noticed I am not quite All Black physique. Well not in this day and age where they are excellent weightlifters first, rugby players second, but back when Terry Wright played rugby people mistook us all the time despite him being in his mid twenties with a stache and me, nine.
I was a whole 2kgs lighter this time round which is great if you’re competing to be the biggest loser but not for me, so given my fast approaching runway model weightlessness I agreed to meet with the dietitian.
Normally I don’t meet with dietitians because if there’s one thing I know its how to eat. I always think that being a dietitian must be a depressingly sad job most of the time because you’re only ever going to be dealing with two types of people; the morbidly obese or the morbidly thin. Imagine throwing a party for that lot.
However this time I caved due to Mrs ClubDes being there with me and who rather strangely, doesn’t subscribe at all to the theory that I know it all. I don’t know why, I’m always telling her how I do. Anyhoo, I was pleasantly surprised because said dietitian turned out to look like Amy Adams and who doesn’t want to be told how to eat by her?
Not that I really listened to watch she said because, well, she looks like Amy Adams, but I did gain one titbit of info; that the powdered high calorie drinks I make myself daily should be a lot stronger than I’ve been making them so there you go, never let it be said I don’t follow instructions well.
Thus the end result of this story is that I’m now part of the wankers club at work, one of the many guys who walk around shaking a powdered drink in a manner that says ‘I’m so buff I can unwrap a Mintie with my buttocks, because I drink this powdered shit’. Only theirs are drinks called ‘Ripped’, ‘Shredded’ and ‘Mega Muscle’, whilst mine looks like baby formula.
I mix mine in a Celebrity Slim shaker too, just to really shit up those around me who think I should ‘fatten up’.
It’s ironic though, that like so much of my spectacular life, I just don’t fit with society on the whole weight thing. Whilst the rest of you fat bastards are counting your calories and buying 97% fat free everything, I have to try and eat like a fat kid at a party, all day, every day. And trust me, I fucken do.
And yet, I still look like Terry Wright. Oh well.
Terry was a skinny man amongst men.
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