Free Such a Pretty Fat: One Narcissist's Quest to Discover if Her Life Makes Her Ass Look Big, or Why Pie Is Not the Answer by Jen Lancaster

while I disrobe again , and when I’m done, I lie on the big table in front of a large donut-y tube with my book until she returns.
    "Ma’am? This is a chest X-ray . You have to stand over there,” she says. “And naked from the waist up means you have to remove your pearls.”
    Pfft . Not in my world, lady.
    I comply and hold as still as I can while she snaps images from behind the big shield. As I hug the chilly metal plate, it strikes me that this is yet another wake-up call. I hate anything vaguely medical, and everything I’m doing today has been garden-variety and relatively noninvasive. What if I really were having a heart attack yesterday and not just an adverse reaction to compulsively looking at cat pictures online?
    What if my bad, lazy habits cause heart disease or a stroke? How will I handle going through the related (and braless) medical procedures? Shoot, I’m afraid of getting BriteSmile and Botox—there’s no way I’ll have the fortitude to deal with something real like a stroke or cancer. Although I like to think of myself as tough, my actions today speak volumes. There’s a world of difference between shouting at people in traffic and facing a wasting disease with dignity and maturity. I mean, I lost my shit over standing on a scale. What if something were really wrong?
    When we’re done and I’m dressed and sanitized again, I keep replaying the day’s unpleasantness while I head to my car. I’ve lacked the motivation to do something about my weight because I’ve been convinced I both look and feel good.
    I’m starting to wonder if I’m not operating on a false premise here. Honestly, maybe I don’t feel all that great. I get winded carrying laundry up from the basement. And I sort of don’t like bending because it makes my pulse throb. Walking from the parking lot to the store shouldn’t be a challenge, right?
    Thoughts racing, I unlock the car and climb in. I suspect if I were living a life where I truly felt good, the possibility of a heart attack wouldn’t have crossed my mind yesterday.
    But it did.
    Shit, I can’t have a heart attack. Heart attacks happen to old people. And how can I be old —I’m still breaking out on my chin, for Christ’s sake. Yeah, I’m going to be forty, but forty is the new thirty! Forty should be about buying a house and a snappy new car, not about interviewing private nurses and buying hospital beds.
    This is all wrong. How did I even get here?
    I place my hand on the gearshift and notice a small black smudge near my knuckle. I rub it, but it doesn’t go away. I’m so distracted by the swirling vortex of thoughts, I lick the offending spot to remove it.
    Uh-oh. That’s going to cost me. Ten bucks says I’m about to come down with a serious case of Hand-Lick Fever. Outstanding. Can’t wait to hear what Dr. Awesome has to say about this bit of stupidity, as I’m sure I’ll be back with flulike symptoms in the next week. I artfully dodged her on my way out of the office, so I spared myself the tail end of the Why You Should Be Less Fat Lecture, Part Infinity . . . at least this time.
    As I pull into the garage, I lift my gigantic handbag out of the car and feel the same tingling numbness in my arm. I swap the bag over to the other side and the same thing happens. I calculate and realize I’ve been carrying this heavy-ass bag exactly as long as I’ve had the arm pain.
    Today just keeps getting better and better!
    After I recover from my bout of the flu, I decide I prefer being healthy and feeling good, if only because I’m not spending my disposable income on medical supplies. This time it was just Kleenex and Vicks VapoRub, but who knows the expenses heart problems entail?
    Changes must be made.
    But the only way I’m going to be able to enable change is if I get a real measure of where I’m starting. In my head I know how much I weigh, but I should probably hop on the scale to confirm it.
    Clad in only my underwear, I loom in front of my