So before I left the States, I went for a physical. This was exciting because I like attention when I'm naked. My friend and I made appointments with the same doctor a day apart. His was first, and he came out with a look of shock on his face. "I'm fat," he said. "She said I'm fat."

"Did she actually use the word fat?" I asked. He nodded, and I was awash in the fear. My friend was a big dude, but not a fattie. If she thought he was fat, that probably meant that I was fat. I didn't think I could handle having to hear that, at least not on an empty stomach.

"Do you think I'm fat?" he asked, clutching himself around the middle and rocking back and forth. He made a frowny face and started trying to grab possible fat on his thighs. Since then, he's been having an inordinate amount of sex with strange women, in an attempt--I assume--to feel better about his purported obesity.

The next day I went to my appointment, with a stomach full of Snickers bars and dread. We did the usual things, the usual examinations. She chastised me about a number of boring things, and then made fun of my tattoo. Finally at the end, she told me to quick smoking and then started to walk out of the room.

"Wait," I called after her. She turned and came back to the where I was huddled in a paper gown, asscrack exposed. "So am I like, overweight or whatever?"

She looked down at her chart and delicately placed her finger against the BMI chart on the wall and slid it across. Firmly in the middle.

"Well," she said, with a look of slight disdain on her slightly-gaunt face, "you aren't overweight, but you could use some conditioning." In other words, you aren't fat but you're flabby. This is now my standard first-date dinnertime anecdote, finally throwing the time I was diagnosed with herpes out of its previous top position in my seductive stories list.