Third Time's a Bust

It's been awhile since I've dated but here's the routine I remembeR: First date, you're just relieved the person meets you at the bar. And that they're dressed. And they can speak in whole sentences. The second date, you're relieved that the first relief wasn't totally uncalled for. And that your date is, in fact, gay. Third date: you start to notice things. The way your date chews. Some pesky political opinion that inadvertently supports Republican ideology even though they think they're just hippies. The run in her stockings. And maybe, just maybe, it's all down hill from there.

This is how I'm feeling.

There were several things that went wrong today with my third nutritionist appointment. The first thing: that on the scale I weighed five more pounds than I did a month ago. Which means I am exactly where I was when I started this whole thing three months ago. I'm willing to give away the fact that that scale reading is not my nutritionist's fault.

And we talked about the problem of not being able to exercise--the new mandates from my physical therapist to rest for the next six-ish weeks. And I asked about cutting back on the meal plan. "What would that do for you?" she asks.

"Well, when I was on a weight maintenance plan before, in the hospital, and they realized I was gaining, they cut a grain and a fruit."

"I'm not doing that. That's not enough food," she says. "And I really think the meal plan is not a place to trim down. Let's think about extra calories elsewhere."

We talked about my weekend with my partner. The few glasses of wine. The meals out with friends. "How often do you see each other?"

"Every three weeks or so."

"So you need to start realizing that time with your friend still counts." Ummmm....what? My friend? I give her what I imagine to be a look of disbelief. "I mean, you're partner." Strike one. Is this is mistake she would make if Cat was my husband?

"I think you also need to think about not losing weight right now. I'm not comfortable with the kind of pressure that puts on you."

"But I need to not gain, either. I want to keep off the 13 pounds I've lost since January. I've gained five pounds."

"I'll give you two. You're wearing winter clothes. And you see how you're rounding up?"

Is she negotiating numbers with an eating disordered person? Like I don't remember the exact reading of the scale last time? And also, should this be up for debate? Or maybe she should address my concerns? Strike 2.

The appointment continues, though I feel like walking out the door. My left ass/hip hurts, as usual. I fidget in my seat. She takes this fidgeting as emotional discomfort. "I know it's hard," she says. "It must be so frustrating."

"I'm frustrated cause my ass hurts from walking over here with my laptop."

I'm likely her worst nightmare. But I don't have the patience. We review the meal plan. We discuss limiting alcohol consumption for the next six weeks. To nothing. Fine.

She talks about eating more vegetables. I explain that I make 1100 bucks a month and vegetables are expensive. She tells me to buy carrots. I discuss the problem of buying environmentally friendly vegetables. "Sometimes you have to trade off some of these rigid values," she says. "You don't want to paint yourself into a box." So it's either cancer and environmental deprivation or weight loss? Strike 3.

As I'm about to leave, she asks if I have change for a dollar so she can fill her parking meter. But I know the basics of baseball: a batter is only allowed three strikes. And I can see a run in her stocking.