From Ursula to Ariel: Stretching out

Hellllllooooooooo!

My goodness, it’s been far too long since I wrote and I apologise profusely. Things have been rather busy around here – which is a good thing – but of course, things like writing my blog tend to fall to the bottom of the priority list.

I actually have a few posts in the pipeline as there has been some fun things going on which I really want to tell you about including my week at luxury bootcamp Nu Beginnings in Devon. For today though I just needed to tell you about what happened yesterday as I’m still blushing at the thought and I generally feel better when I’ve shared my embarrassing stories with you lovely people.

Yesterday was my long awaited endocrinology appointment, to find out if my thyroid is under-active. After circling the car park 6 times and not finding a space, I was almost losing the will to live and as I watched the car clock click closer to 10am, I let out a huge ‘Fucking Hellllllll’ which seemed to work as a car backed out of a space right in front of my eyes. I’m never believing that swearing is bad again.

Letter in hand I hot-footed it to Outpatients 2 and walked into a waiting room of grimness. I immediately spotted at least 3 people wearing those face mask thingys that always make me think of the SARS outbreak and wondered what on earth I was going to be leaving with. With 2 minutes to spare I announced my arrival to be told that the Dr was infact in Outpatients 1 today.. at the other end of the hospital.

“Do you know where you’re going?” the evil eyed receptionist asked, “Well, no, because my letter says Outpatients 2″..

“Just head down the corridor, turn left, turn right, left again, through the double doors, up the stairs, down them again, back through the doors you just came through, right, left and you’re there”. She then spun her chair around and continued filing her nails.

Bloody hell. Yes I was hoping the swearing would help again. I briskly made my way to the correct department suddenly regretting the wooly jumper and matching snood. I got there. I then had to queue and decided that it was their fault I was late so took some of my magical deep breaths and tried to calm myself down. This was all far too much for this time of the morning!

I sat down for a few minutes before being called by a lady in a blue smock with a really long grey ponytail. You know the sort. I followed her down the corridor wondering if she was the endocrinologist and if not, why was I being escorted around the hospital? “We just need to weigh you” she stated as if reading my mind. WEIGH ME? Whaaaat? I wasn’t prepared for this, I was wearing a thick jumper, I usually weigh myself in the nude, after clipping my nails and.. ahem.. having a ‘clearout’. This was a wholly unacceptable situation.

She shuffled me into the weighing room and I frantically ripped my winter boots off, I couldn’t get my clothes off in time but there was NO WAY those boots were going on the scales. “You can either go on the standing scales or the sitting ones if you prefer”.. sitting scales? I’d never seen such a thing – that sounded fun.. and I could do with a rest after that route march. Then I saw the size of the chair and hopped on the regular scales.

Whilst the reading was still horrific, I was inwardly pleased to see that I had actually lost around 8kgs since my health campaign started back in April which is around 17lbs. Whilst I could see her judging my bulk and writing down my weight with an outwardly “I think we get the gist” it took all my might to not let a big wooohoooooooo.

I then had to wait to see the Dr who looked like an Asian version of my friend Matt Baker which I found a little distracting. Anyway, we chatted through everything and spoke about symptoms etc. He then asked if he could see my stretchmarks.

What.

Yes, apparently purple stretchmarks are a symptom of an under-active thyroid and must be the only symptom I hadn’t seen on the 5 thousand Google searches I had done.

I stood up to pull my leggings down and then I remembered.

I hadn’t wanted my knickers to show through my leggings and had only had my big Bridget’s available so I took a gamble on the fact I was only going to be out for an hour and went commando.

I know the rules and had grown up being told that I should always have clean pants on incase I’m in an accident and the hospital staff have to cut me out of them (I’ve since seen 24 hours in A&E and don’t remember seeing any nurses commenting on the casualties undergarments). But this had been a justified decision which now left me in a predicament. Explain the whole no pants thing to Matt, I mean.. the Dr OR just keep quiet and act like it’s totally normal.

I went with option 2 and felt very dirty for it. I hope he didn’t think that I’m some no-knickered whore who parades around flashing her stretchmarks at any old person on the street.

Incidentally, it is mortifying having to show this ultra sensitive area off to anyone, I told him that not even my Husband really got to see this. He didn’t say it but on reflection he was probably thinking ‘Who are you trying to kid, you walk around in public with no knickers on’.

The end result, as I’m sure is the case with everyone was that I needed to for some blood tests and I get the results in January so we’ll see what happens next.

In the meantime, I am enjoying my little weight loss.. with my briefs on.