SCHMOE: Fiction Gone Buff
I was heartened by her at first; she was a breath of fresh air. I’ve been a doctor for umpteen years, more than you’d care to be interested in, so to have someone like that enter my surgery with the issues she had, well, what can I say, it doesn’t ever happen very often. It doesn’t ever happen at all. She caught me off guard, but nothing could have trained me for her anyway. It was shortly after nine, and after a brief introduction she was straight out with what was bothering her: V DEFICIENCY (1). What deficiency? I asked, leaning forward. V deficiency, she repeated, indicating her back with her hands, and sighing when I still didn’t grasp what she meant.
She removed her pink Goldigga hoodie then. Thankfully she wore a bra underneath to compliment her baggy sweatpants, but with her being not much older than my daughter, I was less than comfortable about the situation. I much preferred having to ask patients to remove their clothing for a necessary physical examination, rather than be confronted by a blatant strip. I had to admit to myself however that this young girl had a fantastically-shaped upper body, and obviously spent at least an hour of every day working out with weights in the gymnasium.
No taper, she stressed, drawing an imaginary line from her waist to her shoulder. After some discussion I told her there was nothing she could ever do to alter the size of her clavicles. She shifted focus then onto not one but another two problems, also concerning her back. The first of these two was PALMTREE SYNDROME (2), which continued to blight her no matter how many close-grip rows she did, and so-called because her lats were so high that they give the shape of a palm tree; a thin trunk with all the mass at the top, making her look waspish. This kinda contradicted the afore-mentioned ‘condition’ but I hesitated in pointing this out and interrupting her delivery of verbal demonstrations. Despite my eyes having nowhere else to look but at what I can only describe as tight rippling muscles, this individual was quite fascinating and provided a most unusual encounter in my usually boring office.
Again, struggling to keep a straight face, I told her that high attachments are inherited and there was nothing she could do to change the morphology. Like a kid with a tantrum she hit me with the SHALLOW BACKFIED DISORDER (3), no matter how many deadlifts she did, which means a general lack of thickness and detail in the entire back, from neck to glutes. I politely tried to ease her genuine concerns, as this was, extraordinarily, no joke on her part, saying that I had seen plenty worse backs in my time that were all completely devoid of either a) deficiency, b) syndrome or c) disorder. She left looking like she felt down in the dumps, and although I still wasn’t 100% that it wasn’t a wind-up, I was sure that I hadn’t seen the last of this curious creature.
The very next morning she was in my surgery again, within seconds naked apart from posing trunks and flip flops from the waist down, her oversized sweatpants tossed over the printer on my desk. The charm very quickly wore off during this second session as she motored through the list of imperfections with her legs. ONE-WAY AFFLICTION (4), apparently, is legs that look great from the front but ‘virtually disappear’ when viewed from behind, due to underdeveloped hamstrings. TURNIP THIGHS (5) is an imbalance between the upper and lower regions of the thighs, and so-named because of the vegetable’s top-heavy shape. FLAT-TYRE DISEASE (6), my personal favourite, was her third lower body affliction, and means a lack of thigh size in any way, shape or form. Still, not content with a hat-trick, she moved further downwards to her calves and explained how unbearable it was for her to suffer with PEG LEGS (7) on a daily basis.
I was pressed for time, and had to bite my tongue. She seemed to be expertly clued-up on what exercises would work best for her particular genetics and I wondered if only a magic prescription of pills would satisfy her. A shoulder to cry on I could sympathise with but I was more like a face to complain to. On our third and final meeting, the next morning, she was in a real stinker of a mood, as much at the world as at her own body I guessed, but she still went to lengths to impress upon me the pitfalls of a CONGENITAL WIDE WAIST (8), DROOPY PECS (9), and SPAGHETTI ARMS (10). If she didn’t address these ‘maladies’ soon, she said, or, moreover, if I didn’t help her address these maladies soon, then she feared she wouldn’t stand a chance at defending her Miss NABBA junior crown for the third year in a row. By now the awkward seduction of the strip show had long gone and my patience was truly worn by her childish petulance. But I had news for her. I had some really sound advice. Perhaps because my own daughter is a paraplegic, or because my next patient that morning had terminal cancer...I don’t know. I was just cheesed off.
Diagnosis: MEATHEAD-ITIS.
Prognosis: GET RID OF YOUR MIRRORS AND STOP GOING THE GYM!!!
© Ya what, ha? Productions 2010
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