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Weight just a darn minute!

By RONDA RICH

Dixie Dew, my sweet, chubby dachshund, hates her annual check-ups. She doesn’t mind the probing, shots, invasion of delicate privacy or drawing of blood. Instead, she detests what every woman in America hates about her yearly physical: Weighing.

The other day at the vet’s office, this turned into a battle as sheer terror filled her eyes and she fought stubbornly to stay away from the stainless steel scales.

I understand. I even took off her fuchsia-colored collar and promised it would reduce the weight by several ounces. Didn’t work. She primly lifted her nose and turned her head away to sulk.

The vet’s tech had a solution. She suggested that I step on the scale and weigh, step off, pick up Dixie Dew and weigh again. Then, we would subtract the first number from the last and we’d have Dew’s weight. It was my turn to primly lift my nose and turn my head to sulk. But, first, I explained.

“No way! I have to go through that humiliation at my doctor’s office and there is no way that I am going through it at the vet’s, too. Forget it.”

Over a high-calorie dinner, the divas and I discussed this dilemma of weighing that plagues womanhood.

Like childbirth, it is solely our cross to bear because to men, their weight, like their age, is just a number. To women, those two numbers are the sum definition of our body and we protect both zealously.

Men, on the other hand, share both freely. You don’t even have to ask a man how old he is or how much he weighs. He happily shares it whenever it crosses his mind.

Not us. That’s why we, just like Dixie Dew, hate those annual trips to the doctor.

“These scales are wrong,” I said haughtily at my last checkup.

The stern nurse did not look up as she wrote the erroneous number in my chart. “Just had them calibrated. They’re accurate to the ounce.”

I stepped off the scales. “Then, you need to get a new supplier for these paper gowns because this one weighs 10 pounds.”

The divas discussed our various tactics and strategies for these horrendous weigh-ins. No makeup, especially heavy lip-gloss, hairspray, barrettes or jewelry. Too much weight.

No supper the night before and nothing, not even a sip of water, before the weigh-in. We determined that a cup of coffee can add as much as two pounds.

Bras with underwire should never be worn. That’s another pound or two.

Clara explained that before she chooses a doctor, she calls and ask how much he weighs. Highfaluting credentials aren’t important to her but having a doctor who is overweight is. That way, she reasons, he won’t lecture her about those 20 pounds she needs to lose.

For the first time in 15 years, I recently had to go to the doctor for something other than a well-care visit. I had been stung by a scorpion and my right hand was abnormally swollen. The first thing the mean nurse did was to direct me to the scales.

“No,” I said firmly, shaking my head adamantly. “This is about my finger, not the rest of my body. Do you want to weigh my hand?”

I see it on the news every day. There’s a healthcare crisis in this country and Washington pundits don’t have a clue as to how to handle it. They claim it’s because most people don’t visit doctors until they’re sick rather than for preventive visits.

Well, I have the solution and it won’t cost the taxpayers a dollar. All the physicians need to do is to stop weighing people. It’s that simple. Even my dog knows that.