Reduced to Numbers

Curses be to health and wellness I say. Today was another health focused day at work. They were kind enough to bring in a group that does cardiac assessments among other things (I'm reducing the medical terms down to kitche Mom terms). One of the assessments done was an entire body composition. So let's analyze this for a minute. Are they going to tell me what my body is composed of? I can do that myself thanks. But no....this doesn't tell you what you're made of exactly. It tells you numbers. Everyone can relate to numbers until you realize what the numbers of one's body composition stand for. Let me break that down for you. First, there's the fat percentage. Yep. I could have gone a lifetime without knowing what my fat ratio is. And in case you think I'm going to reveal that on my blog, uhhh....no. But let's just say the odds were not favorable. I'm as bouyant as a beach ball with current listed fat ratio. Then let's move on to actual pounds of fat. Apparently, I'm storing a small child in my body somewhere and she's made of 100% fat. If I was a cow, I'd be prized meat right now with just enough gristle to make everything tastey. That's how I give myself comfort in this time of trial. I know, weird analogy but in times of distress, you find solace in odd things. I've never been told how much of my actual body was just plain old unadulterated FAT. It's really enlightening to see. I might not have used the word enlighten when I first read the number. And as I was going over these numbers with my body composition giver--Charlene--I did not feel enlightened. And incidentally, how is it that these people who give you body composition tests do not feel compelled to do the same. I politely asked Charlene (once I heard her lunch request to a fellow coworker) if she had the opportunity to have the same tests. Oh yes, she said. Apparently, her fat pounds must not be equal to mine or she would not have ordered a fried chicken platter with an extra heaping of french fries. Apparently, she's not as affected by the fact that she could have been storing a small child made of 100% fat in her body either. She was about to feed the child.
So then I got to thinking about this whole numbers game and body composition. To my children, I'm a soft pillowy form of perfection. My body absorbs hugs and hangs on to them. I'm a soft shoulder, stomach, back, and thigh to cry on. And I can finish up wasted dinners with the best of em. But to this small electron charge going through my body, I was a mission, a project. The charge wound its way through my body, finding what it was told to find. Fat percentage...check. Fat in pounds.....check. Lack of appropriate hydration (aka, drink more water fool)....check. And when it found the numbers, it came back to report. Overlook the fact that I have feelings, that I have concerns, that I have needs for chocolate on certain (cough daily) occassions. This computer just spewed these numbers out and reduced me to a ratio. And so now my focus has changed. Once I was just slightly plumped up. Now, I know what is living inside me. I know what my body is doing with that extra slice of bread in the morning or those 5 extra candy corns I took from the office treat jar. It's feeding my FAT child. And I have to try and fit myself into these numbers now. I am told my fat percentage should be between 21-27%. That's final the computer says. You must comply or your fat child will grow larger. And I must lean the fat child within me and make it a fat toddler and then hopefully just a fat baby. But I guess that's the lesson today that I learned. That computers don't get hugs. Computers don't need chocolate. And computers don't know what it's like to have to accept yourself, even with the percentage of fat being out of whack. So I appreciate the feedback oh body composition calculator. But your kind isn't welcome around these parts any longer. And I think I can go at least another 5 years without knowing what exists inside my body. It's better that way. Then I can love myself for everything I'm composed of, even if it's not within the range of numbers I'm supposed to be in. It just goes to show you Bill Gates that computers still don't have common sense because they aren't living, breathing human beings. To err is human. Thank goodness because if I was in line to be a computer, my numbers are WAY out of whack. I'd have been stamped reject on the assembly line. So to all of you who haven't had your body composition checked, just say NO. And incidentally, if you're one of those women who works really hard at being healthy and you have numbers of perfection--don't share them. We already know you're perfect, we already secretly spit on the ground you walk on and wish we could be like you. We don't need your body composition numbers screaming in our faces (I'll just cite that based on a fellow coworker who fit said description and HAD to share her numbers with me). There, I feel better now. I think my fat child within is crying and there's a chocolate bar with my name on it.