Can I Get a Doctor?

Sadly, the answer is no. My body seems to be falling apart, and, because I'm a "tourist," I'm not really allowed to make a good old-fashioned appointment to get my ailments tended to. I guess unless we were rich, which, being on one income, we are most definitely not.

My most recent ailments -- yes, plural -- are of the chronic and acute sort, with the chronic one having recently decided to go into overdrive. The whole story begins with my miserably flat feet. And large. They're so flat -- and large -- that people see it necessary to point them out with cute little names, such as bunny feet, ski boots, etc. And that's most recently in my adulthood when the teasing is supposed to stop.

When I was in fourth grade, Harry and I were standing around having a chat during recess or something about I don't remember what and Sister Marie David approached us to see how we were doing. Then Harry decided to bust out with a question about the size of my feet. (Yes, they were large even back then.)

"Why are her feet so big?" he asked laughing, forgetting momentarily that he was a huge nerd whose ass I probably could have kicked save for the fact I had given up fighting with the boys in -- well, the week before.

"Well, Harry," Sister began, "she needs them that big to support her body." Or something like that.

Yeah, okay, I'm not the smallest slice of pizza in the pie. The smallest donut in the dozen. But nor am I huge. I'd say I'm the weight of the contestants on Biggest Loser in the last few weeks. I could use to lose a few pounds kilos. It wasn't until leaving New York that I realized the benefits the city offers fitness-wise. If you're smart, you don't own a car in New York. So you walk everywhere. And walk I did. I also worked out at home. So I was doing all right. Losing weight. Staying fit

drinking beer. Then I moved here.

While I haven't ballooned or anything, I still want to get down to a weight I'm happy with. I've still not been able to drop those thirty pounds. It's like they love me. So Meredith suggested I get up in the morning and walk to work with her. She suggested this after probably being annoyed at my complaining about not only the elliptical machine we have but also the fact that I wish I could get up earlier. (Not having a job to go to makes it hard to get out of bed.)

It seemed like a good idea, so last week I woke up at 6:15 every morning, which, incidentally is two hours earlier than I did when I was editing sentences for a living in NY. And I walked with her to work every morning. We'd say our goodbyes and I'd hike up that first hill, sweat coming down my face, and just kept walking. That week lost me nine pounds.

Motivated by my weigh-in Monday morning, I raised my heart rate with the intent of having another successful week of fitness. And within five minutes of our place, an excruciating pain shot through the bottom of my foot. Every step I took was painful and if I were a horse, I'd have been shot. Visions of obesity flashed through my head, as I feared I'd never be able to walk again. I'd limp through the rest of my life, unable to get my pulse higher than a regular, non-weight-losing thump, thump, thump.

But it wasn't only my left foot. The big toe on my right foot seized up with pain, too. That's the chronic injury. Limp, limp, limp. Perhaps it was the shoes, I theorized. Lugz, Vans, and Nike Airs. These brands are probably not the best to walk five-plus miles in on a daily basis. So I took three days off this week to rest up my feet and get a new pair of running shoes. My right toe still hurts, but the left foot is fine. Acute, indeed.

I can't get a doctor till I'm considered legitimate in some way here. Right now that's not going to be until January. Good stuff.