There's a knock at the door.

"May I come in?" a monotone female voice asks.

"Yes. Come in!"

Carrying a plastic device similar in appearance to a large kazoo, the respiratory specialist enters the room—and my theory of accidentally driving to the set of Grey's Anatomy instead of a real Urgent Care continues to gather evidence. Long hair. Perfect figure. Flawless skin. This woman is every chubby girl's nightmare. If a camera adds ten pounds to one's body image, being near an absolute knockout adds at least fifty. I can literally feel myself expanding like a Macy's Parade balloon.

"I understand you've been having difficulty with your breathing?" the respiratory specialist asks with a smile so fake you'd think it was painted on like Bozo's.

"It's probably nothing," I explain. "There's a heaviness on my chest, but it might be because I've gained some weight. It was more noticeable last night, though."

Eyes not meeting mine, the specialist absentmindedly bobs her head in a fake nod of interest. In fact, everything about this woman seems a bit phony. She probably has fake boobs. Not that I can tell what's happening beneath the doctor's white coat or anything, it's just something fat girls say to boost self-esteem. I may be fat, but at least my overabundance is real—not a bunch of plastic parts and silicone—you pompom waving, plastic surgery, Barbie doll.

Her back towards me while fidgeting with some items on the counter, Specialist Pompoms asks, "Noticeable? How?"

"There was a weight pushing down on my lungs, like an elephant dick was on my chest."

Pompoms glances over her shoulder, her resting bitch face staring blankly in my direction. "What do you mean?"

C'mon Pompoms! Ele'dick? Not even a half smile? If Specialist Pompoms were to tell me she preferred silk house plants over people, I'd totally believe her.

"It was like a heavy weight was on my chest," I clarify.

She nods, turning her attention back towards the counter. "Any other changes in breathing recently?"

I make a ball with my fist and hold it up against my neck. "I've had this weird sensation where it feels like something's trapped in my throat, but nothing's actually there."

"For how long?" Pompoms questions.

"A couple months. My doctor thinks it could be an acid reflux thing. Maybe caused by caffeine?"

Specialist Pompoms leaves the urgent care kazoo on the counter and turns to face me, her hands hidden in the pockets of her lab coat. She stares at the balled fist pressing against my throat.

"I really notice it after eating spinach," I continue.

"That's odd," Pompoms replies, seemingly looking through me—an emptiness behind her gaze.

"It might have nothing to do with spinach. It just hurts more after I eat the stuff. I'm wondering if my body could have an intolerance to vegetables?"

"Hmm," she responds.

Is this woman listening to a word I'm saying, I think to myself. No! No she's not! She's probably too busy judging my lack of grooming and the massive size of my ass! You don't know me, bitch! Don't even think you know anything about me! You and your fake-ass clown smile—

The lack of conversation between myself and Specialist Pompoms is unsettling. Her job is to observe patients to understand what's wrong with them, yet she's hardly even addressed me or my predicament. I find myself wondering why. She's too busy speculating, maybe?

I decide to be unfazed by Pompoms's disinterest in my veggie hypothesis. "It'll bum me out if I have an intolerance to the leafy greens," I continue. "I've made peace with spinach. I can't say that about other vegetables."

Pompoms nods, an eyebrow raises just slightly.

You don't believe I eat spinach, I accuse from within. You assume because I'm fat I don't eat healthy? Screw you, Doctor Silicone!

"Spinach?" Pompoms finally questions. I don't know how or why, but the leafy green word sounds all kinds of condescending coming from Pompom's lips.

I have had all I can stand, I think in my best Popeye voice, and I can't stands no more!

I knew vegetables would ruin my life and make me look like a crazy person, but mom never listened—she made me eat them anyway. Hopping on my spinach box, I rant, "It could be spinach. It could be caffeine. It started one day when I woke up and wondered what the hell happened to my life. I'm Single. No children. Still trying to figure out what I want to be—or do. This wasn't the plan I had for my life. I wasn't supposed to be—THIS at my age. I wasn't supposed to be fat and ungroomed and—empty."

"Oh." Specialist Pompoms clears her throat and pulls the stethoscope from her neck. She holds he stethoscope against her chest as she waits—eyes darting around the room at everything except me.

"I've always wanted to be a writer, so about a year ago I decide to go after that lost dream. I wake up two hours before work to get some writing in. Two hours early! But to wake myself up, I need caffeine. I'm not a coffee drinker. Never have been. But to wake up at 4:00 AM I need something. So I pop a caffeine pill, write for two hours, then go off to an exhausting job for ten hours. I mean—I still have to pay the bills, right?"

"Um-hmm." Pompoms clenches her jaw as though chewing an invisible steak. She glances at her watch, then gives me a tight-lipped smile.

"By the time I get off work, I'm 12 hours into my day. I'm too exhausted to go to the gym." I grab a fistful of belly flesh. "Obviously that's working well for me. But not only do I stop going to the gym, I start eating pasta instead of spinach. Pasta doesn't make the sensation in my neck feel as uncomfortable as spinach does. Before I know it I'm alone, fat, tired, consuming sugar and carbs for energy, still trying to make a dream happen—and on top of it all—working a dead end job that doesn't even earn me enough money to buy fake happiness."

"Yeah." Specialist Pompoms clears her throat a second time. She now has the stethoscope secured in her ears and the chestpiece in her palm. "I should check your breathing."

Unconsciously, I reach out and close the specialist's fingers around the stethoscope's chestpiece—securing my hand around hers. "And what do I get after months of concentrated effort to reach a dream? Hives from my bat-flapping arms down to my swollen ankles, and the heavy weight of failure on my lungs." After a dramatic pause I add, "You have no idea who I am or the struggles I'm going through."

"Wow." Pompoms breaks her hand free from my gentle grip. "Let's find a way to get some heavy weight off your lungs."

When Specialist Pompoms jerks her hand away, it snaps me into an awakened state of embarrassment. I've officially lost my mind. Mental patient. Coo-coo bird. I'm the crazy lady dumping the details of my pathetic life story on deaf, Barbie ears. Looking down at the red plastic hospital bracelet on my wrist, an uncomfortable chuckle echoes from within. Silly girl. You never listen.

For a split second, an image flashes in my mind.

"Breathe," Pompoms instructs. She listens to my lungs from several locations on my chest and back—like McSexy and SilverFox did earlier.

I glance up at the portrait of Queen Elizabeth. I think I'm having an Ah-Ha moment, but the paradigm shift hasn't fully shifted yet.

"There's nothing stopping me." My comment is random, as though coming from some unknown source. Even I find the meaning of the statement puzzling.

Pompoms secures the stethoscope back around her neck. "Stopping what?"

Another image flashes in my mind.

"Just because it looks like—." The words trail off my lips in a whisper. "It doesn't mean—"

Pompoms glances at me sideways. "What?"

This time I become the endpoint of her line of sight—a vacant sadness lingering in her baby blues. That's why, I think to myself.

The first image flashes in my mind again—

—but I don't quite understand the reason.

"There's nothing stopping me," I repeat, attempting to move the conversation away from the topics of sadness and whatever I thought I was beginning to understand. "There's nothing stopping me from losing the elephant penis weighing down on my chest."

Pompoms squints while shaking her head. Clearly she doesn't understand what I'm talking about. To be fair, I hardly understand either.

"An elephant penis weighs 60 pounds. That's how much weight I want to lose. I'm sure I'll breathe much easier if I can lose an ele'dick."

There's a subtle upward turn of her lips. For a split second, joy seems to shadow Pompoms's sadness.

"Impressive for the elephant, right?" The sudden turn in Specialist Pompoms's vibe encourages me to run with the dick humor. "And to think human males feel like studs with their measly six inches."

A man clears his throat in the doorway. I'm causing so much throat clearing for some reason.

Turning my head, I spot McSexy quietly standing in the doorway. Oh, mother fucker, I sigh internally—the power of suggestion making it extremely difficult to not glance down to see what kind of gun he's packing.

The room goes cold. Any warmth that may have been radiating from Pompoms has vanished. She immediately turns towards the counter and busies herself with the urgent care kazoo thingy. Nurse McSexy stands in the corner opposite from the one Specialist Poms is in. Eyes glued to the floor with both hands discretely covering his privates—the handsome nurse looks beyond uncomfortable.

Note to self: Never mention elephant dicks in public again. Ever.

*****McSEXY BREAK*****

The real Respiratory Specialist was not a Margot Robbie, but I did tell her all about my veggie hypothesis. I also explained why I traded spinach for pasta and the reasons for not exercising. The real Respiratory Specialist was about as impressed with my reasoning as Pompoms was. 

MUSIC: Gwen Stefani. Isn't it funny how certain "types" automatically twist your perceptions of reality? There was no need to hollaback at Pompoms. She was being sad, not condescending!

Your vote is truly McAppreciated. Muah!

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