I was delivering letterhead to a little medical clinic when the marketing director offered to give me a free body scan on their new fancy schmancy BMI machine.
Awesome, I thought! Definitely a perk of the job!
(I had done this before at Publix waiting for a prescription, but this machine was different. Fancier…)
Classical music flowed from its speakers. It was probably pumping out pure oxygen.
I stepped onto the machine and a few moments later, the machine spit out a summary of its findings. Pastel-colored infographics illustrated my physical make up – it looked like a work of art.
The nurse explained in a comforting voice that everything looked great!
It’s just that…
I need to lose 16 pounds of body fat?
Oh, is that all.
And right down here it gives you the weight of each of your appendages, she explained.
My right leg, for example, weighed 13.34 pounds.
“So what you’re telling me,” I asked…
“Is that I could literally REMOVE my right leg… and still need to lose 3 pounds?”
And instead of doing the logical thing. The thing that every good South Tampa gal would do (literally RUN directly to Whole Foods. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. In fact, throw up on your way there…)
Do you know what I did?
I met my friends for lunch at the Red Lobster and ordered the Captain’s Platter.
Thirty minutes later, one lone shrimp floated in the scampi-dish of drawn butter.
I killed it.
And now I was having trouble breathing.
Had I taken the BMI test AFTER lunch, the machine probably would have burst into flames.
In my defense it was my 30th birthday meal, so I was allowed to splurge, right?
At any rate, this test proved to me what I already knew – I need to make a change in my thirties.
The decade when my metabolism will supposedly come to a screeching halt.
So I started a food journal to document every processed, pasteurized, cancer-causing calorie that I consume.
I’m hoping that seeing my diet on paper will disgust me enough to change my eating habits.
The alternative, of course, is just to cut off my leg, and call it a day.