My Nutritionist and I (part 2)
I was generally pleased with my resolve and commitment until I went to my second appointment. The nutritionist managed to single-handedly make me feel like… like… the obese chocolate-cup-cake-with-cream cheese-frosting-and-sprinkles-with-french-fries-on-the-side-following-a-large-bowl-of-pasta-accompanied-by-a-large-peanut butter-malt lovin’ girl often featured in chick flicks and mainstream teenage shows like Glee. The part is often played by a Caucasian brunette in loose-fitting (thank goodness) shirts who has such bad acne that even you, watching the movie with your not-so-attractive friends, feel good about yourself despite the huge pimple that has made an unannounced appearance on your chin.
I’m not kidding though, that’s exactly how she made me feel (if I was pop culture savvy, this is where I would quote Mean Girls or a similar high school movie). I walked in, exchanged pleasantries and handed her my food journal. She looked at me before opening it and asked me how I felt about the past two weeks. “Oh it’s been great!” I gushed, “I think I lost some weight.” The look on her face told me that I had said the wrong thing. I pursed my lips and tried a small smile. Too late. “You lost some weight. And how do you know that?”
I hate trick questions. What do you mean how do I know that? Why, I got an animated e-card from my BMI, of course! With a big yellow smiley face and GOOD JOB in thick pink letters. The confetti jumped around the screen and changed colors. That’s how I knew I lost weight.
She opened my food journal and squinted. Then it was all downhill from there.
Her: You had sushi rolls.
Me: Yeah… I forgot to pack lunch that morning. But I wrote down how many calories each roll was!
Her: And you figured that out… how?
Me: Um. I looked it up. Online. On the internet, I mean. Um.
Her: Chocolate cake on Monday… banana bread on Tuesday… cookies… wait, show me where I wrote this on your diet plan.
Ok… so I didn’t stick to her plan 100% but I made an effort. Why was she doing this to me? Making all my hard work seem so insignificant. I mean she even flipped to a random page and gasped. “You had a BANANA, a PEAR and an APPLE for dinner?! WITH YOGURT?” What is this woman on? Seriously, because that night I thought I was starving myself. “Yes…I made a small fruit salad for dinner….” I told her. In my head I added, it’s better than the Papa John’s extra cheese mushroom pizza that I was craving that night. She shook her head sadly and told me, “I said you can have a banana OR a pear OR an apple with your yogurt. Not all three.”
Riiiiight. I felt like Oliver Twist.
Then she looked at me. “So, I guess I shouldn’t weigh you this time… let’s see how you do in a couple more weeks.”
What? No. I had changed my lifestyle and eating habits and the scale was going to be my witness, so help me God. I insisted that we do take measurements and I stepped on the scale. To my utter shock I had put ON weight. Not much. Half a kilo. But nevertheless I felt like the scale had betrayed me and publicly shamed me.
She raised an eyebrow. I sighed and stepped off the scale. I didn’t even bother coming up with excuses though deep down I knew it was because I had three pieces of fruit that night and not the sushi rolls or the cheesecake. I listened to her berate me for a few minutes but I don’t remember what she said because I was busy sulking. She did admit though that my body could already be turning the fat into muscle but we both knew that wasn’t the case it was those evil three pieces of fruit!
Never again, I vowed, as I marched out of her office with as much dignity as I could muster. Never again will I have fruit for dinner. If my body and the scale were going to conspire against me I might as well have a juciy burger.