The sexes and the scales of injustice

Published April 21, 2008

"I'm just calling to remind you of your appointment tomorrow."
I regularly get that phone reminder from three places: My hairdresser, my doctor and my dentist.
I don't mind getting those calls from the hairdresser. They just give me a chance to look forward to a couple hours of pampering and girl-talk. The only stressful thing about hair appointments is worrying whether I have enough money in my account to cover the cost of them.
Oh, but that same reminder message from the doctor's or dentist's office ... gulp! Panic and dread.
I guess everyone dreads the dentist, and that's unfortunate because, think about it, when is the last time your dentist hurt you? Actually, if anything, it's the other way around. You hurt, and he makes it stop hurting. But it's just the sound of that drill and all that poking and prodding that goes on. Not quite the same as looking forward to getting your hair shampooed or your toenails painted.
And then there is the appointment reminder from the doctor's office, the call that trumps the others as the King of Dread - and the one I got last week.
Why is it so scary to go to the doctor?
Because the doctor does something that neither the dentist nor the hairdresser does. He weighs me. Well, he doesn't weigh me; his capable assistant does. But those numbers she sees on the scale are recorded in my file and the file is handed over to the doctor.
And then he opens up the file and looks at it - and it's time to face the music.
On the rare occasion those numbers from the scale are smaller than the ones she handed him the last time I was in his office, life is good. He's proud of me and he tells me so. I feel as if I just told my dad I got all A's in school.
But, oh brother, if those numbers got bigger, I feel as a dog must feel when he gets caught ripping up the garbage.
Sometimes when the doctor's receptionist calls to remind me of my appointment, I ask her if I can reschedule it for next week, the thought being that I will eat like a bird and exercise like a horse until then.
Of course, I never do that, but who lets past behavior influence renewed resolve? Not me.
In the midst of all this irrational getting-weighed-at-the-doctor dread, I read about a study that was done by researchers at the University of North Carolina.
It seems that some women are so self-conscious about their weight that they put off really important doctor business like cancer screenings. It seems not all doctors tuck their scales away in a corner as mine does. Some are in high-traffic areas and the women are ashamed.
The study also found that some of these obese women are afraid that the hospital gown they are given to put on will be too small.
Men don't act like that. They weigh what they weigh - good, bad or indifferent.
A co-worker participating in the newspaper's version of "The Biggest Loser" was actually going around the newsroom looking for heavy objects to put in his pockets before the initial weigh-in.
He didn't care what the scale said. He just wanted to weigh-in heavy so that the next time he was asked to step on the scale - pockets empty - it would look as if he lost weight.
And he probably would have gotten away with it, too.
If only he would have filled his pockets with teeny little iron pellets instead of big old office staplers.