Baby Fat

One of my most tightly held beliefs is that the extra pounds I’ve carried around since childhood is baby fat and that it will eventually burn off. During a physical checkup, I shared this theory with my doctor, a slender, humorless and quiet man who usually conducts his business with a straight face and very short sentences.

When confronted with an even marginally funny line, he tightens his mouth into what must be a painful pursing of the lips and stares at me and the ceiling, alternatively, until I begin to sweat profusely.

It’s usually at this point that the doctor brings my weight into the conversation. “You’re sweating like the fat man you’ve become.”

During this particular visit, he was engaged in poking and prodding and speaking into the tiny tape recorder he now uses for notes. This was brought about by his famously unintelligible handwriting.

(The incident that led to his abandonment of writing and the adoption of recording involving his note to a hospital ordering what looked like pregnancy examination for one of his male patients. The poor, confused gentlemen was already in the stirrups when the technician realized the doctor must have meant prostate examination. A mini tape recorder appeared on the penmanship-challenged doctor’s desk the next morning.)

As he moved around my body with his chilled weapons of medical detection, he spoke softly into the tape recorder: “Need to check BP daily. Need to change meds for hypertension. Patient is fat. Check that—patient is obese.”

Although he was whispering his little notes somewhat incoherently, I heard fat and obese clearly and immediately shared my baby fat theory. Picking up his little tape machine, the doctor said, a bit louder than before: “Patient is deluded. Patient is a hardcore lard bucket unlikely to maintain diet regimen needed for meaningful weight loss.”

“I’ve always considered myself to be ‘pleasingly plump,’ ” using a somewhat dated euphemism.

“Pleasing to whom?” asked the M.D.

“Well, it’s an expression,” was my meek reply. “You know—like ‘husky’ or 'large economy size’ or even ‘big boned.’ ”

The weary expression that darkened the doctor’s face told me that his “Dangers of Obesity” lecture was on its way, and I was correct; the next 10 minutes were consumed by facts, statistics, and opinions about the scourge of obesity and the relativity simple steps that can be taken to reduce the girth of the American people, beginning of course with me. The doctor made it sound as though I was the worst offender in the world, and when I told him I was feeling picked on, he said I should develop thicker skin.

“You’ve got so much extra skin,” he said, squeezing a roll of fat around my middle. “Toughen it up and my little barbs will just bounce off.”

So I sat uncomfortably and endured the rest of the lecture: “Did you know that 70 percent of heart disease is linked to excess fat? Are you aware that people in your state of obesity are 42 percent more likely to get colon cancer than your more fit brethren? And I’m sure you’ve heard that 80 percent of people with type 2 diabetes are obese.”

I mumbled that I didn’t know all that, and the doctor said quickly, “I told you all that just a few weeks ago when you came in here complaining about how swollen your feet were. Your memory is fading as fast as your girth isn’t. Let’s just do a few memory tests.”

Persuading him that my memory is just fine, I began to argue that some people are just meant to be a tad hefty or a bit bulky or somewhat ample. I left out the baby fat theory but added my belief that I am big boned. My skinny medical advisor let me ramble on in that manner for a while, but the big boned comment woke him up.

“You are fat, sir and if you do not lose weight soon, I will lose a good patient with excellent insurance,” said the doctor sternly. “I can count on you coming to my office every two or three weeks with a complaint that is directly linked to your immense size.”

He paused for a moment, expecting me to jump in with a string of excuses for my portliness, but I refrained. My mind was beginning to wander toward what I could have for supper. A picture of pork chops with gravy and mashed potatoes smothered with butter popped into my head and I smiled broadly. The doctor was reading my mind. He spoke again with increased solemnity.

“Sir, you eat too much fattening food. You are not big boned or hefty or bulky or ample. You are indeed a blimp, a tub of lard, a human hippopotamus—except the hippo takes better care of his tooth.” He reached down for a tongue depressor. “Open wide—let’s get a look at that sparsely populated mouth of yours.”

Then his face grew calm but concerned, and he smiled. “Tom, you’ve got to take care of yourself or you will pass from this world rather soon. I would lose a patient. The only one who would profit handsomely in that event would be a coffin-maker who charges by the board foot. What do you say—can I put you on another diet to save your life?”

“Well, since you put it that way …” He handed me a postcard-sized sheet of paper with the foods I could eat, along with a phonebook-sized list of the foods I must now avoid. Lifting the huge Do Not Eat book strained a muscle in my back, but I left the doctor’s office without telling him, thus avoiding his infamous Dangers of Improper Lifting lecture.