I saw my new doctor briefly last week (over a scare I'm not going to go into, that turned out to be nothing). But today's the hardcore visit. That has me nervous going in. Not because of proctologic exams (though I'm not looking forward to that -- my butt has a very specific "no fingers" contract it hates to have violated, and the court time's going to be a bitch after this).

Here's the thing -- and I know I've written journal entries before about it. I'm fat.

I know. The shock overwhelms you.

I've been fat for quite a while. It's something I generally have come to terms with. Andrea doesn't mind it (or so she says, and I see no reason for her to lie to me -- that comes later in a relationship). I've spent a long time being hefty. Even that old picture of mine on the bio page shows evidence of some mammoth.

But I've been gaining. And I can't afford to gain. Not one pound. Which means my metabolism -- always the slowest on the block to begin with -- is even slower as I get older.

So I have to lose weight. I have to lose weight. Or I'm going to die. Possibly from getting stuck in a revolving door.

I can feel my weight in my knees and feet now. They don't like being strained more than my weight already does. I already much prefer sitting to standing. (Come to think of it, that was true before I gained all this weight. There may be a correlation.)

You know -- I read some online journals and I see the tortured souls of their readers go out. I read about sexual adventurism and disease and addiction and religious torment. It almost feels stupid to be putting an entry up about being nervous about going to the doctor because I'm fat.

But I don't talk about it to people, you see.

I refer to it. Make jokes. Make light of the fact that I could play the live action Bluto from Popeye. And I listen to things about it -- listen to my parents and sister talk about it to me, and nod a lot.

But I don't talk about it. It scares me. It's like I have no control over it. Like it's direct, physical evidence that I'm a failure. And I have no answers. None. I'll show you.

"Why do you think you're fat, Eric?"

I eat too much and I don't exercise.

"Why do you eat too much?"

Beats me. It's not like I'm hungry all the time.

"Why don't you exercise more."

No clue. I love going for walks and I enjoy the feelings of exercise.

"What can you do about all this?"

No idea. I try things. I've tried more things than I can count, from the well organized to the ridiculous. No good. I've starved myself, I've done modified fasts, I flirted with Phen-fen (not in the right combination to kill me, I'm told by doctors later), I've done organized diets, I've done exercise plans, I've done exercise programs... what's left is hypnotherapy and dangerous, expensive, elective surgery.

See? I have no answers. I just have me and my life, and I don't know what to do about it.

And that scares me.

I'm going to have a physical today. I expect I'll need to go over later this week for blood work. And I expect to be told what I already know: I need to lose weight, or I'm going to have my quality of life degenerate steadily, and then I'm going to die.

And I will ask the doctor what I can do to lose weight, and he won't know. He'll make references to Weight Watchers and vague suggestions. That's what Internal Medicine doctors do. If there's a program in the hospital, he'll mention it.

Did I mention weight loss programs are not covered under most Health Insurance? They're not. Apparently, they're considered optional. Well, until you have heart disease.

I wonder if I have heart disease. I might.

Does this all make you, the reader, uncomfortable? I hope not. It sounds dangerously like whining to me. Dangerously like a play for self-pity. Poor little fat boy.

I need to go. Work to do, and then the doctor's appointment. I'll let you know tomorrow how it goes.