The Number

There are certain pieces of information in this world that one ought to sugar coat before blurting out. Or at least give the person recieving the information a stiff drink. Or a Xanax.
This is by no means a short list. Telling your boyfriend how many people you've slept with. Telling your parents not to get their hopes up for grandkids from your branch of the family tree. Telling your parents that you're calling from prison and need bail.
And then there's a person's number.
I had a physical yesterday. Not because I'm all concerned with my health, but because I have insurance, and I'll be having as many medical procedures and check ups as possible (lasik eye surgery and prefrontal lobotomy, here I come!) while I'm still covered.
My doctor asked me my height as I stepped onto the scale. And then he read the little slip of paper his scale spit out and, with not so much a "brace yourself"....

Doctor Blunt: Wow. Your body fat is up 5% from this time last year. (He then procceds to give me the actual number, which roughly translates to my being made entirely of fat from the knees down)

Dan: How is that possible? I go to the gym 5 days a week. I barely eat. I walk everywhere.

Doctor Blunt: Well, it happened.

Dan: I'm going through a breakup! I've been filling my emotional void with chocolate! It's just breakup weight!

Doctor Blunt: Well then, I guess you'll be reentering the dating pool fatter than when you left.

OK, he didn't really say that last part. But I know he was thinking it.

My solution to the problem? Sitting on my couch watching Buffy all day, trying to avoid the homemade Macaroni and Cheese my sister put in the fridge before she went to D.C. for the weekend.