Page 5 of Giovanni
He frowns, his finger tightening over the worn wood of the door trim.
“I did. It’s no wonder we’ll never catch up. If we could get more funding out of the city.”
He sighs, and I roll my eyes. The fight with the mayor’s office is recurring, resulting in the same old excuses. Bipartisan politics, corruption investigations, and failed voter amendments.
“Until then, I’ll need to decide which place I’m ordering dinner from tonight.” I lean back in my chair, going over the usual places in my mind. “You staying late?”
“No, it’s the science fair at the school tonight. I’ve got to see how well the volcanomy son builterupts.”
His use of finger quotes to drive home the point that he made the volcano makes me chuckle. I don’t have kids, married to my career of pursuing justice for the victims, but I hear enough stories from my colleagues to know that most parents construct their kids’ science and history projects.
“Didn’t you build a replica of the Alamo out of popsicle sticks last year?”
“Sugar cubes. And yes, it never ends.” He groans in frustration. “Well, don’t stay too late. I’ll see ya in the morning.”
I’m still chuckling when he leaves, relishing the simplicity of my life. Me and work are all I have to focus on. The former is severely neglected. The latter monopolizes my waking hours. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The door closes with a soft click, leaving me in the quiet aftermath. I stand and stretch, my body stiff from hours of sitting, and my eyes burn with screen fatigue. I down the cold remains of my coffee and tidy up to create an open spot on my desk. The rest of my office is too overwhelming to even bother with.
I collapse in my chair, my hips hurting and my back aching from the hours hunched over my computer. Reaching for the phone, I dial the familiar number of the barbeque place down the street.
“The usual but lean brisket this time and an extra fried okra.”
I change my order ahead of my doctor’s appointment tomorrow morning. It’s no secret that I’ve gained weight over the years. The size four I used to be in college progressed to a size eight in law school, which turned into a size twelve with all my years here.
Not that I like the weight gain. The rolls collecting around my middle don’t make me feel confident being naked in relationships, so I avoid them. Every new year is paved with good intentions of losing weight, so I feel comfortable starting dating. My procrastination and lack of discipline in putting myself first always win, resulting in me staying married to my work and putting on the pounds.
The food arrives as delicious as ever, and I continue working. Hours slip past, marked only by the rhythmic tap of my keyboard and the occasional murmur of the janitors as they make their rounds. They’re the witnesses to my relentless routine and the evidence of me living in my office.
When I finally call it a night, my eyes are dry, my veins vibrate with too much coffee, and my body slumps with exhaustion. The janitors nod as I pass with a wave. Night security stopped acknowledging me leave long ago, even though I mutter goodnight every time I exit. The streets are cold andempty. The synchronized traffic lights are the only signs of life around me. By the time I get home, I’m walking dead and can’t even muster the energy to do anything more than brush my teeth and go to sleep.
??
The phone wails from my living room, where I dumped my purse last night. I peel my eyes open, regretting not washing my face and removing my stinging contacts. My eyes have difficulty focusing when I sit in bed to look at my alarm clock, seeing it’s well past 8 am.
I set an early doctor’s appointment to avoid missing work. When I realize I only have thirty minutes to shower, get ready, and be in the medical center, I fly out of bed, stubbing my toe and cussing up a storm.
Panic gives way to a flurry of activity as I make do with the minimalist effort in my appearance and dash out the door to race into rush hour traffic. I honk my horn, cut people off, and am a general asshole to get to his office fifteen minutes late.
The receptionist gives me a tremendous attitude about my tardiness before the nurse calls me back to that dreaded machine that tells the real story of my weight gain. I nearly faint when the scale climbs over one hundred and sixty pounds, only to be made worse when she takes my blood pressure. Both results are dizzying. My heart throbs in my chest when she guides me to the room, catching up on my medical history and medications since last year’s appointment.
Once that’s complete, she leaves me alone with my thoughts, wondering how I let it get this bad. Dr. Patel slips into the room with a grim look, and I immediately apologize for my tardiness. He shakes his head, humming at the results on the tablet, sittingon the stool the nurse vacated. Suddenly, I don’t think his look has anything to do with my late arrival.
“Kacie, your blood pressure is high. Too high,” he starts, not bothering with preambles. “And the weight gain is alarming. We’ll run some labs today, but I suspect they’ll confirm that you’re on the verge of becoming prediabetic.”
None of this is what I want to hear. I appreciate Dr. Patel’s bluntness as I usually deal with the facts of the case, not emotions. This time, I wish he’d soften the blow.
“I’ve watched your health parameters climb steadily each year. It’s time we talk about your lifestyle. Please walk me through a typical day. Work, diet, and exercise.”
Oh no.
He asks me this every year. I have forgotten how much I dread the interview portion before the examination. It’s always bad when he makes me account for my lack of work-life balance.
“Well,” I begin, clearing my throat. “I’m at the office early, often skipping breakfast or grabbing something quick like a bagel from the cart in the tunnel. Lunch is . . . whenever I can fit it in, usually something fast.”
He scribbles his notes on his tablet, waiting for me to continue.
“Dinner.” I hesitate, the image of my overflowing trash bin of takeout containers flashing in my mind. “Is often the same. As for exercise, it’s . . . sporadic at best.”
