I Think I Need a Therapist

This morning my mind is occupied with something other than a Friday Counseling Issues Post.

First, for the second time this week I was rudely awakened by machines. Three days ago, around 3 a.m., I heard a very unpleasant, rhythmic bleepbleepbleep, unrelenting and loud. I stumbled out of bed and followed my ears (there’s a visual for you) to the living room, where my cell phone was guilty of the racket. Somehow or other, the alarm had been set.

I didn’t do it. Not on purpose. I have no idea how it happened. Mumblegrump. Shuffled back to bed but didn’t sleep soundly. Had to be up at six.

Last night, I was in a blissful sleep coma when once again I hear beepbeepbeepbeep, high-pitched, unrelenting, and annoying.  I considered finding a hammer.

It was our microwave.  It has a “reminder” feature on it that I’ve never used. Terry had mentioned last night that he’d accidentally bumped it, but thought he had it turned off.

Apparently not.  I informed him this morning that if he ever does that again I WILL wake him up and he will be assigned to the doghouse for an indefinite period of time.  Grrrrrrrgrumblemump. What really ticks me off is the way he snorts and chortles when I threaten him with dire consequences. He is not properly respectful of my powers.

But now to get to the real thorn under my saddle.  I finally waved the white flag of surrender with my doctor and volunteered to see a dietician.  I’ve made a concerted effort for the last five months to drop some flab, and have gotten exactly nowhere. My doctor is delighted, as if she thinks the dietician has a magic wand that melts fat.

Thing is, it’s not that I don’t know WHAT to do.  I just don’t WANT to do it. I’ve eaten piles—yea, verily, MOUNTAINS of salad in my lifetime, and I’m still fat.  I hate being fat. Hate it with a passion. I’ve done every diet known to mankind, and a few that aren’t.  I’ve lost lots of weight over the years, gained it all back and then some when I go back to eating like a normal person.  What really bugs me is that I’m married to Jack Sprat.

Jack Sprat could eat no fat; his wife could eat no lean. And so, between the two, they licked the platter clean.

So this morning I’m going to pay someone to tell me what I already know. What I’m hoping is that having one-to-one accountabiity will help me stay on the straight-and-narrow. And my doc says this woman has lots of great ideas that I may never have thought about.

Here I go again.

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