As I get older, I’m figuring out that the reason people talk about their ailments is that they’re sharing useful medical information. At least, this is the rationalization that works best for me, because while conversations about cholesterol and lower back pain used to bore me to tears, now all I want to talk about is cholesterol and lower back pain.
In the interests of full disclosure, I should say that I don’t have lower back pain, but I hope to someday, so I can be like everybody else and join the national conversation. I do, however, have high cholesterol, which is why I’m on Lipitor, and I’d be happy to tell you about that, should you ask. In the meantime, kindly permit this story on a different medical subject.
Here’s what happened.
Daughter Francesca came home from college and suggested that we join a gym, which is exactly the problem with educating your child. They get dangerous new ideas. Be forewarned.
But I went along with it, thinking it would be fun. Now, you should know that I’m no slouch in the physical department. I walk the dogs two miles a day, ride Buddy the Pony twice a week, and swear by the South Beach Diet. To be honest, I thought I had maybe five pounds to lose. By the way, you may have heard about that study in which women were asked if they’d rather lose five pounds or gain five IQ points. You know which they chose?
The five pounds.
I would, too. In fact, I would kill to lose five pounds. I’m pretty sure it would be justifiable homicide, at least if I got a woman judge.
Anyway, to get to the point, Francesca and I checked out the gyms in the neighborhood, which was fun. She asked about trainers, and I asked about defibrillators.
It may not be a good idea to join a gym with your kid. You look for different things. She wants treadmills, and you want CPR.
She’s trying to look hot, and you’re trying not to die.
Long story short, we joined the gym that gave us three free sessions with a trainer, and then we went for our first session. We started by warming up on the elliptical machines, watching Judge Judy on the big TVs, and yapping away. Then we met our trainer, a manchild with biceps that could cut hard cheese. I liked him until he told us it was time for our “evaluation,” which included me holding a white plastic gadget that measured my body fat.
You wanna know?
Thirty-one percent.