Dixie Dew, my sweet, chubby dachshund, hates her annual check-ups. She doesn't

mind the probing, shots, invasion of delicate privacy or drawing of blood.

Instead, she detests what every woman in America hates about her yearly physical:

Weighing.

The other day at the vet's office, this turned into a battle as sheer

terror filled her eyes and she fought stubbornly to stay away from the stainless

steel scales.

I understand. I even took off her fuchsia-colored collar and promised it

would reduce the weight by several ounces. Didn't work. She primly lifted

her nose and turned her head away to sulk.

The vet's tech had a solution. She suggested that I step on the scale

and weigh, step off, pick up Dixie Dew and weigh again. Then, we would subtract

the first number from the last and we'd have Dew's weight. It was

my turn to primly lift my nose and turn my head to sulk. But, first, I explained.

"No way! I have to go through that humiliation at my doctor's

office and there is no way that I am going through it at the vet's,

too. Forget it."

Over a high-calorie dinner, the divas and I discussed this dilemma of weighing

that plagues womanhood.

Like childbirth, it is solely our cross to bear because to men, their weight,

like their age, is just a number. To women, those two numbers are the sum

definition of our body and we protect both zealously.

Men, on the other hand, share both freely. You don't even have to ask

a man how old he is or how much he weighs. He happily shares it whenever

it crosses his mind.

Not us. That's why we, just like Dixie Dew, hate those annual trips

to the doctor.

"These scales are wrong," I said haughtily at my last checkup.

The stern nurse did not look up as she wrote the erroneous number in my

chart. "Just had them calibrated. They're accurate to the ounce."

I stepped off the scales. "Then, you need to get a new supplier for

these paper gowns because this one weighs 10 pounds."

The divas discussed our various tactics and strategies for these horrendous

weigh-ins. No makeup, especially heavy lip-gloss, hairspray, barrettes or

jewelry. Too much weight.

No supper the night before and nothing, not even a sip of water, before

the weigh-in. We determined that a cup of coffee can add as much as two pounds.

Bras with underwire should never be worn. That's another pound or two.

Clara explained that before she chooses a doctor, she calls and ask how

much he weighs. Highfaluting credentials aren't important to her but

having a doctor who is overweight is. That way, she reasons, he won't

lecture her about those 20 pounds she needs to lose.

For the first time in 15 years, I recently had to go to the doctor for something

other than a well-care visit. I had been stung by a scorpion and my right

hand was abnormally swollen. The first thing the mean nurse did was to direct

me to the scales.

"No," I said firmly, shaking my head adamantly. "This is

about my finger, not the rest of my body. Do you want to weigh my hand?"

I see it on the news every day. There's a healthcare crisis in this

country and Washington pundits don't have a clue as to how to handle

it. They claim it's because most people don't visit doctors until

they're sick rather than for preventive visits.

Well, I have the solution and it won't cost the taxpayers a dollar.

All the physicians need to do is to stop weighing people. It's that

simple. Even my dog knows that.