Two body myths that I suspect are true:
1. Shaving makes hair grow back coarser
2. Eating little or not at all causes the stomach to shrink
Myth 1. I've experienced often back in my shaving days. I'm sure you have too, at some stage, skinned a boyfriend's palms with your sandpaper legs.
The stomach, on the other hand, I feel has actually decreased in capacity. It was only recently that Jez and I realised we could never eat nearly as much as we once did with ease. I'm amused that we're experiencing this simultaneously. It could be the couple-effect. Like Couvade syndrome.
Anyway, this is a list we compiled of amounts of food we once consumed (individually) on an usual basis.
One large pan-based pizza*
Two Hungry Jack's burger meals
A plateful of dumplings equivalent to roughly 1 kg
One seafood mix grill from George's Cafe plus iced chocolate and dessert*
One main and one serving of pancakes from Pancakes on the Rocks*
One bowl of Ramen Kan ramen**
One large Easy Way drink*
(* me, ** both, rest are just Jez)
Now ... I managed to force three slices (sans crust) of a crispy medium-sized pizza from The Mad Italian a few weeks ago; the Hungry Jack's meals Jez used to eat alone are shared between the two of us, as is the mix grill; half a bowl of ramen is more than enough for my appetite; Easy Way drinks are also always shared; it has now become impossible to eat both dinner and dessert (hence last night we skipped the former and went for the latter); not to mention we somehow both filled up on one can of soup.
Whereas belly-bulging satiety was satisfying in the past, I find now that overeating by even two bites results in groany-moany gastrointestinal discomfort. I hate the feeling of being full, which usually sits just fine with my little anorexic mindframe but at times when I'm ravenous enough to eat my own head, filling up on a sushi roll somehow fails to hit the spot.
Showing posts with label health. Show all posts
Showing posts with label health. Show all posts
3.01.2008
2.02.2008
Hurt
My latest in my series of minor but frequent injuries is a small piece of glass embedded in my wrist. Subconscious suicide attempt? Gasp.
No, well, really. It's a little chip of black glass. When I rested my wrist on the desk I realised that it was painful and bleeding. And black. There was a teensy bit poking out from under my skin and the rest was sitting snugly inside, raising a little bump. The tweezers couldn't grip the exposed part so I dug in and pucked it out. Unfortunately it broke and I spent five minutes scavenging all the pieces.
Other than that I have two cuts on my arm - both as a result of moving past piles of sharp construction materials in the shop; a cut on my leg from the edge of a plasterboard; and a scratch on my knuckle from God knows what.
It's not that I'm not careful, but raising my guard probably won't hurt. Hurt. Get it? Haha.
Friday
Jez messaged me five minutes before I finish work. Getting a haircut at Chinatown.
He emerged from the salon looking peculiar. I didn't like the way they left a little sweeping fringe when the sides were trimmed so short. Say no more to Asian hairdressers. Please, I beg you.
We had sushi at the place across from Capitol Square. Mango salmon. Fried fish skins. Mmm. Mmm ... Mmm?
Maloney's for drinks with mostly-Jez's friends. Though Jez vehemently denies this, I think he would have enjoyed himself immensely if not for my presence. To be honest Maloney's was high on my list of last-places-I-wanted-to-be. Mainly because when placed on a chair in a stuffy room with a glass of alcohol after a week's worth of work, staying awake is out of the question without periodically sticking pins into my nipples.
This was evident when I tried to take a photo with Becca and was puzzled over why it would not work when she pointed out that I was in fact holding the camera back-to-front.
Jez caught my eye every few minutes, wrinkled his nose at me and mouthed "I love you". I considered going home to save him the burden of looking after me. Of course he didn't allow it.
By the time we were home, Jez was drunk. There's a bright side though.
I slept comfortably.
Saturday
Was visited by the familiar lower-abdominal burning. After some agony Jez decided to take me to the doctor.
His hair was excellent this morning. I found it highly irritating that he chooses to look sexier than I've ever seen him while I'm a frizzy little ball of mess in my soiled dress.
As it happens, not only did the burning disappear before we arrived, Dr M. was off and the waiting time was estimated to be one hour. There were like twenty patients before me. What's that, like 3 minutes each? My kitty cat needs more than 3 minutes.
With me muttering lame sorries, we ate lunch at Sahara and walked through Westfield like a couple of high-school kids. When Jez left a little bit of me died.
No, well, really. It's a little chip of black glass. When I rested my wrist on the desk I realised that it was painful and bleeding. And black. There was a teensy bit poking out from under my skin and the rest was sitting snugly inside, raising a little bump. The tweezers couldn't grip the exposed part so I dug in and pucked it out. Unfortunately it broke and I spent five minutes scavenging all the pieces.
Other than that I have two cuts on my arm - both as a result of moving past piles of sharp construction materials in the shop; a cut on my leg from the edge of a plasterboard; and a scratch on my knuckle from God knows what.
It's not that I'm not careful, but raising my guard probably won't hurt. Hurt. Get it? Haha.
Friday
Jez messaged me five minutes before I finish work. Getting a haircut at Chinatown.
He emerged from the salon looking peculiar. I didn't like the way they left a little sweeping fringe when the sides were trimmed so short. Say no more to Asian hairdressers. Please, I beg you.
We had sushi at the place across from Capitol Square. Mango salmon. Fried fish skins. Mmm. Mmm ... Mmm?
Maloney's for drinks with mostly-Jez's friends. Though Jez vehemently denies this, I think he would have enjoyed himself immensely if not for my presence. To be honest Maloney's was high on my list of last-places-I-wanted-to-be. Mainly because when placed on a chair in a stuffy room with a glass of alcohol after a week's worth of work, staying awake is out of the question without periodically sticking pins into my nipples.
This was evident when I tried to take a photo with Becca and was puzzled over why it would not work when she pointed out that I was in fact holding the camera back-to-front.
Jez caught my eye every few minutes, wrinkled his nose at me and mouthed "I love you". I considered going home to save him the burden of looking after me. Of course he didn't allow it.
By the time we were home, Jez was drunk. There's a bright side though.
I slept comfortably.
Saturday
Was visited by the familiar lower-abdominal burning. After some agony Jez decided to take me to the doctor.
His hair was excellent this morning. I found it highly irritating that he chooses to look sexier than I've ever seen him while I'm a frizzy little ball of mess in my soiled dress.
As it happens, not only did the burning disappear before we arrived, Dr M. was off and the waiting time was estimated to be one hour. There were like twenty patients before me. What's that, like 3 minutes each? My kitty cat needs more than 3 minutes.
With me muttering lame sorries, we ate lunch at Sahara and walked through Westfield like a couple of high-school kids. When Jez left a little bit of me died.
1.30.2008
You're SO NAΪVE
As expected, my appointment was at 11:00 am but I sat in the waiting room until one full hour later.
Explained my condition and answered the usual personal questions that followed. When was your last period? Oh I don't know, a couple of months ago. When was the last time you had sex? Monday morning. Was it painful? Are you kidding, it was sexcellent.
I hate urine tests. Mainly because it's about fifty times more difficult for women to catch their waste in a cup than it is for men. How much would it suck to be the technician that spends all day sticking test strips into warm solutions of urea. At least she takes pleasure in causing tremendous pain to all the gardasil receivers by sticking mindblowingly painful needles into their arms.
More waiting.
Re-enter consultation room to find that as always, I'm perfectly healthy. Nevertheless Dr M. did the usual. The usual being pressing with great force on various parts of my lower abdomen while I'm lying down and asking me whether it hurts. Of course it does if you're crushing my uterus into a pancake.
Because my strange little burning sensation couldn't be linked to infections of any sort, Dr M. suspected pregnancy. After more waiting we ruled that one out too. Vienna and Kei and the other one will have to wait (who is the other one?!?).
In the end, three hours after I entered the centre, I was advised to take painkillers for the time being while my excretions undergo further testing. I was also strongly advised to take a smear. Except it's kind of awkward because the only female GP practising there is on leave. While reluctant to go to another centre I find it creepy that if I don't then this middle-aged man with big ears is going to be the third person to have seen all my goodies.
The gardasil gave me an explosive headache that persisted throughout my half-shift. I stumbled around doing absolutely nothing but looking busy so to keep Mirjana off my throbbing head. Apart from changing the bin linings the most productive thing I did today was sticking L'Occitane stickers all over Glenda's back when she was closing the till.
Was supposed to have dinner with Jez at that snazzy fish-tank sushi place opposite Capitol Square but we had alternative plans. With sexy results.
Explained my condition and answered the usual personal questions that followed. When was your last period? Oh I don't know, a couple of months ago. When was the last time you had sex? Monday morning. Was it painful? Are you kidding, it was sexcellent.
I hate urine tests. Mainly because it's about fifty times more difficult for women to catch their waste in a cup than it is for men. How much would it suck to be the technician that spends all day sticking test strips into warm solutions of urea. At least she takes pleasure in causing tremendous pain to all the gardasil receivers by sticking mindblowingly painful needles into their arms.
More waiting.
Re-enter consultation room to find that as always, I'm perfectly healthy. Nevertheless Dr M. did the usual. The usual being pressing with great force on various parts of my lower abdomen while I'm lying down and asking me whether it hurts. Of course it does if you're crushing my uterus into a pancake.
Because my strange little burning sensation couldn't be linked to infections of any sort, Dr M. suspected pregnancy. After more waiting we ruled that one out too. Vienna and Kei and the other one will have to wait (who is the other one?!?).
In the end, three hours after I entered the centre, I was advised to take painkillers for the time being while my excretions undergo further testing. I was also strongly advised to take a smear. Except it's kind of awkward because the only female GP practising there is on leave. While reluctant to go to another centre I find it creepy that if I don't then this middle-aged man with big ears is going to be the third person to have seen all my goodies.
The gardasil gave me an explosive headache that persisted throughout my half-shift. I stumbled around doing absolutely nothing but looking busy so to keep Mirjana off my throbbing head. Apart from changing the bin linings the most productive thing I did today was sticking L'Occitane stickers all over Glenda's back when she was closing the till.
Was supposed to have dinner with Jez at that snazzy fish-tank sushi place opposite Capitol Square but we had alternative plans. With sexy results.
Oh Cranberries
Woke up this morning feeling unpleasant. Suspect cystitis. Strange, right. Do I have too much sex? Not enough, I say.
Called Mirjana to request taking leave in the morning to visit the doctor. She was very understanding. Hopefully she'll be understanding enough to understand that to see my favourite and only responsible doctor of the medical centre my booking has been placed in queue for 11:00 am. If I requested the first available GP I could have made it to work ten minutes early, but that's ridiculous. I'd be just wasting thirty seconds of my life opening my mouth to tell him about my condition while he blurts out "here's-a-script-for-some-Ural-don't-worry-too-much-about-it-I-haven't-even-spoken-to-you-let-alone-examine-you-but-I'm-sure-you're-fine-kthnxbai" and shoves me out of the consultation room.
Seriously though, that's exactly what happens.
In the worse case I've had the life of my breasts squeezed out of them in a breast examination during which I was not instructed to remove any of my three sweaters. At the time I was an A-cup. I seriously doubted she could have been able to grab anything under all that wool.
So this is why I've been seeing nobody but Dr M. for the past two years, despite the fact that each visit comes with a hour-long (with booking) or three-hours-long (without booking) waiting room period. On top of that the man seems somewhat condescending because I must come off as a giant floozy having 90% of my consultations being about contraception and my sole concern being not breast cancer or thrombosis, but the couple of kilos I gained after my first COC. And then I'd say something totally stupid like "does it really help my skin? Cause look, LOOK, I have a break-out, right here. And here. It's like counting stars, except they're on my face".
Now he's going to diagnose me with cystitis. Bloody great.
Called Mirjana to request taking leave in the morning to visit the doctor. She was very understanding. Hopefully she'll be understanding enough to understand that to see my favourite and only responsible doctor of the medical centre my booking has been placed in queue for 11:00 am. If I requested the first available GP I could have made it to work ten minutes early, but that's ridiculous. I'd be just wasting thirty seconds of my life opening my mouth to tell him about my condition while he blurts out "here's-a-script-for-some-Ural-don't-worry-too-much-about-it-I-haven't-even-spoken-to-you-let-alone-examine-you-but-I'm-sure-you're-fine-kthnxbai" and shoves me out of the consultation room.
Seriously though, that's exactly what happens.
In the worse case I've had the life of my breasts squeezed out of them in a breast examination during which I was not instructed to remove any of my three sweaters. At the time I was an A-cup. I seriously doubted she could have been able to grab anything under all that wool.
So this is why I've been seeing nobody but Dr M. for the past two years, despite the fact that each visit comes with a hour-long (with booking) or three-hours-long (without booking) waiting room period. On top of that the man seems somewhat condescending because I must come off as a giant floozy having 90% of my consultations being about contraception and my sole concern being not breast cancer or thrombosis, but the couple of kilos I gained after my first COC. And then I'd say something totally stupid like "does it really help my skin? Cause look, LOOK, I have a break-out, right here. And here. It's like counting stars, except they're on my face".
Now he's going to diagnose me with cystitis. Bloody great.
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