Read Online Such a Pretty Fat: One Narcissist's Quest to Discover if Her Life Makes Her Ass Look Big, or Why Pie Is Not the Answer by Jen Lancaster - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jen Lancaster
Tags: Fiction, General, Romance, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Family Life, Biography, Authors; American, Cultural Heritage, Women, 21st Century, Jeanne, Lancaster; Jen, Authors; American - 21st century
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question. The honest answer is, I cruise the Internet almost every waking moment because the world is anxiously awaiting my expert opinion on all things Tori Spelling and it would be selfish of me not to share it. Oh, that is, except when I’m busy watching TiVo’d episodes of The Real World: Denver. And by the way? All the snow dumped on Colorado recently? That was totally God’s way of punishing them for this season’s utterly contemptible cast.
“I’d say maybe an hour or so.”
The interrogation continues, and the doctor pokes, prods, and manipulates my limbs and soon determines the problem. Apparently I bend my arms too much, and to make them stop tingling, I have to remember to straighten them out more often. Dr. Awesome suggests I get wrist guards and also wrap my elbows in Ace bandages, inserting a pen or a ruler as a brace so I’m not tempted to crook them unnecessarily.
Yes.
This is officially the dumbest reason I have ever sought medical treatment, thus displacing the time the squirrel bit me. Fortunately, I finally convinced her to prescribe me some Ambien to help me sleep, so I feel as though I’ve accomplished something.
The trade-off is that Dr. Awesome wants to revisit the whole blood pressure business, and she orders a battery of tests. First up? Blood work!
Jen’s Life Lessons #5644-5647: (5644) Those who think I’m a baby about being weighed have obviously never tried to extract any of my fluids; (5645) if Nurse Badonkadonk thought she disliked me before, she had another thing coming; (5646) I’m fat everywhere except my veins; and (5647) snappy retorts in the manner of “Heh; this is why I’m not a heroin addict!” only serve to prompt more needle-based digging in both my arms. Eventually the nurse has to tap a vein in my hand , ignoring my suggestion that perhaps my blood would rather just stay inside me, where it belongs.
Now I’m off to another room for an echocardiogram. Dr. Awesome promises my heart is fine and says this test is just a precaution. I’ve had one of these before, so I’m not as much of a nancy pants about it. Nothing about it is painful, except the thought of someone seeing me n-a-k-e-d . As I strip from the waist up, I examine the computer system in here. There’s a small webcam on top of the monitor, and according to the screen saver, it’s used for facial recognition log-in. So cutting-edge! Unfortunately the camera broadcasts whatever it sees onto the screen, and I accidentally turn in front of it while struggling to get out of my bra. I’m treated to an extreme close-up of my own bare rack, and the first thought in my head is Worst. Porno. Ever.
I put on the flimsy cover-up and engage in more hand cleaning. This time I use the office’s scrub sink, finishing with a couple of generous squirts of their sanitizer. When the nurse returns, she covers me with a bunch of stickers and attaches electrodes all over my arms and chest, including way underneath my left b-o-o-b and down my legs. I laugh about being glad I shaved and she ignores me. Ugh. One paper gown later and I’m suddenly Henny Youngman. I’m embarrassed for me. No wonder she’s not a fan.
The test is over quickly, and before the nurse leaves, she tells me that there are ten sticky electrodes on me and I can peel them off myself. I search and search but can find only nine. The last one’s probably stuck behind an errant b-r-e-a-s-t . Yeah, really looking forward to that twisted little Easter egg hunt when I get home.
Now I have to go next door to the radiology center for chest X-rays. Again I’m required to strip to the waist. Aarrggh. Aren’t they using, like, lasers or something? What’s the difference between seeing through my polo shirt and sensible bra and seeing through a gown of the same thickness? As long as they note that the little alligator-shaped blob over my heart is a logo and not a tumor, what’s the big deal?
My argument falls on deaf ears. The technician excuses herself
“I’d say maybe an hour or so.”
The interrogation continues, and the doctor pokes, prods, and manipulates my limbs and soon determines the problem. Apparently I bend my arms too much, and to make them stop tingling, I have to remember to straighten them out more often. Dr. Awesome suggests I get wrist guards and also wrap my elbows in Ace bandages, inserting a pen or a ruler as a brace so I’m not tempted to crook them unnecessarily.
Yes.
This is officially the dumbest reason I have ever sought medical treatment, thus displacing the time the squirrel bit me. Fortunately, I finally convinced her to prescribe me some Ambien to help me sleep, so I feel as though I’ve accomplished something.
The trade-off is that Dr. Awesome wants to revisit the whole blood pressure business, and she orders a battery of tests. First up? Blood work!
Jen’s Life Lessons #5644-5647: (5644) Those who think I’m a baby about being weighed have obviously never tried to extract any of my fluids; (5645) if Nurse Badonkadonk thought she disliked me before, she had another thing coming; (5646) I’m fat everywhere except my veins; and (5647) snappy retorts in the manner of “Heh; this is why I’m not a heroin addict!” only serve to prompt more needle-based digging in both my arms. Eventually the nurse has to tap a vein in my hand , ignoring my suggestion that perhaps my blood would rather just stay inside me, where it belongs.
Now I’m off to another room for an echocardiogram. Dr. Awesome promises my heart is fine and says this test is just a precaution. I’ve had one of these before, so I’m not as much of a nancy pants about it. Nothing about it is painful, except the thought of someone seeing me n-a-k-e-d . As I strip from the waist up, I examine the computer system in here. There’s a small webcam on top of the monitor, and according to the screen saver, it’s used for facial recognition log-in. So cutting-edge! Unfortunately the camera broadcasts whatever it sees onto the screen, and I accidentally turn in front of it while struggling to get out of my bra. I’m treated to an extreme close-up of my own bare rack, and the first thought in my head is Worst. Porno. Ever.
I put on the flimsy cover-up and engage in more hand cleaning. This time I use the office’s scrub sink, finishing with a couple of generous squirts of their sanitizer. When the nurse returns, she covers me with a bunch of stickers and attaches electrodes all over my arms and chest, including way underneath my left b-o-o-b and down my legs. I laugh about being glad I shaved and she ignores me. Ugh. One paper gown later and I’m suddenly Henny Youngman. I’m embarrassed for me. No wonder she’s not a fan.
The test is over quickly, and before the nurse leaves, she tells me that there are ten sticky electrodes on me and I can peel them off myself. I search and search but can find only nine. The last one’s probably stuck behind an errant b-r-e-a-s-t . Yeah, really looking forward to that twisted little Easter egg hunt when I get home.
Now I have to go next door to the radiology center for chest X-rays. Again I’m required to strip to the waist. Aarrggh. Aren’t they using, like, lasers or something? What’s the difference between seeing through my polo shirt and sensible bra and seeing through a gown of the same thickness? As long as they note that the little alligator-shaped blob over my heart is a logo and not a tumor, what’s the big deal?
My argument falls on deaf ears. The technician excuses herself
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