Let that sink in for a minute. A fat nurse. A nurse who is fat. A nurse who eats too much.
I’m not talking about the glamorized nurse on television who every male patient wants a sponge bath from, I’m talking about the squeaky shoe nurse.
The nurse with the very visible, large panty line that looks like a mini-parachute hiding underneath some intensely stressed scrubs. The nurse with the fake tanned skin, pursed lips from smoking and a speck of leftover Twinkie sitting on the corner of her mouth.
I know what it’s like to be overweight, but you don’t see me telling people to cut down on eating Philly cheese steaks or that midnight grilled cheese sandwich.
I know that difficulty first hand. Oh, and I never forget to add a piece of bologna to the grilled cheese. For protein of course.
But, when I go to a doctor’s office for a checkup I expect to at least be scolded by a nurse who is in decent shape. I don’t mean someone the size of Kate Moss, but it’s difficult for me to take advice from a nurse who has more chins than I have. That’s just insane.
There’s nothing worse than stepping off the scale and the linebacker-sized nurse giving me that “you shouldn’t have had that double cheeseburger look” as she writes my weight down on the chart.
Then as she looks at my height and weight she says, “You know, technically you are considered obese.” Technically?
I thought about telling her, “You know, you shouldn’t be mad at me because your face looks like someone hit you with a bag of wrenches,” but I thought I should keep that to myself.
I kindly reminded her that although I’m 5’11” and weigh 250 pounds, I have no noticeable neck and I should be given at least 4 courtesy inches added on to my height. After all, my shoulders are the same height as someone with a normal neck who is 6’3”.
She just looked back at me with a gaze which suggested that getting her GED was much more difficult than she anticipated.
But, she probably was using the indirect light of a tanning bed to study Pre-Algebra between watching soap operas and blogging online about how 40 is the new 30. That might explain that gaze.
She then took me to the examining room and told me the doctor would see me in a few minutes. I was so happy that my interaction with her was nearly over.
She left the room and I stared at the mini-parachute in her pants as she walked out. For some strange reason, that made me feel good about myself. Kind of like that feeling I get when I go to Wal Mart late at night to stare at people so that I feel as if I was somewhat of a success in life.
A few moments later the doctor walked in and as he smiled I could see that his teeth were stained by some type of coffee and his breath and body stunk of cigarettes.
Too much irony for one day, hopefully when I leave there won’t be a Pro-Lifer gunning down an abortion doctor in the lobby.