On “tough love” and your fat friend’s health.
Your Fat Friend

This. So much this.

I’m a mesomorph. An admittedly overweight mesomorph now (thank you, years of bipolar disorder drugs!), but I never *ever* weighed what I was “supposed” to weigh for my height. I’m five-foot-nothing, did gymnastics for fourteen years, used to powerlift for fun (my leg press topped out at a thousand pounds), and at my adult skinniest, after losing 120 pounds I weighed 137.5. According to the bs BMI, I was obese. I’m obese *now* at 233, and I know it, but I also have cheekbones that don’t quit sitting pretty in a heart-shaped face, slender hands and lower arms, totally shredded triceps, and thighs that could crush a bowling ball. I went to not-my-regular-doc for a sinus infection, and the first thing out of her mouth was “So do you have an endocrinologist?” I knew where this was going. “I’m not diabetic, no I don’t need an endocrinologist.” She says, “So there’s this thing called BMI…” I cut her off right there, telling her plainly that both me and my regular doc believe that BMI is bull, and can I please just get my RX for the infection. She goes on to tell me how I should drink orange juice and have tea with honey, to help my sinuses. “Yeah, oj is full of sugar and honey is pure sugar.” No, she says, drink the real stuff, fresh-squeezed. I repeat, “Yeah, oj is full of sugar and honey is pure sugar. You tell me I’m fat and then prescribe pure sugar.” On the office notes she lists my diagnoses as: 1. Morbid obesity, 2. Bipolar disorder, 3. Sinus infection.

Holy mother of pearl.

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