Getting (a) Physical

No, that's not me in the photo.  Nor is it my doctor, who probably isn't even 40 yet.  Looking at this snapshot, it's more likely an amateur production of "The Sunshine Boys" with two Miami, Florida actors doing the "Doctor's Sketch."

Enough about the illustration.  This is going to be about health and specifically, mine. 

For about ten years now, I have made it a tradition of scheduling my annual physical during the week between Christmas and New Year's.  A present to myself.  The gift of continued health and...hopefully, life. 

Friends used to think I was crazy for doing this deep dive diagnostic during the holidays.

"What if they find something wrong?  You've ruined your Christmas?"

Talk about your half-empty glass of dirty water.  I'd like to think that everything is okay and I can enjoy the Yuletide even more.

And so it was this year as I headed in for my 90 minute consultation with my terrific internist.  Will I still get an hour-and-a-half in the future with the new healthcare reforms?  Unlikely, but I was determined to enjoy it while I can.

Beyond the usual bloodwork that looks to see if all the levels of stuff are in the right place, my annual physical includes extensive poking and prodding.  It's like a TSA pat-down except the examiner has more than a ninth-grade education. 

And, of course, there's the scale.  You have to get on it.

Okay, my weight over the years has stayed the same.  Up a few, down a few.  I've given up the struggle of being incredibly svelte because that milk shake left the blender years ago.  But, as I headed in for Physical 2012, I am thinking this might be the time to see a little decrease.  Working diligently with a trainer twice a week. Being told you look skinny.  (Alright, skinny might be a real stretch).  Hearing that my body shape appears different.

So, this year, I don't hop up on the scale with trepidation.  This is likely good news.

"You've gained ten pounds."

Say what?

And just how many cookies did I eat over the holidays?

As I sadly stepped off the scale, I thought about this weight gain.  Double digits.  Double chins are bound to follow.  I was going in the wrong direction. 

My doctor, however, was not concerned in the least.

"I don't mind a weight gain because it's clearly all muscle."

He talked about what he had seen.  Rock-solid calves and thighs.  More of a V-shaped contour.  And what's that???  A visible ab.  I commented that I had one on each side, so technically I did have the plural.  Abs.

"I like the way you look."

I wasn't so worried about this comment.  I mean, I did get a Christmas card from my doctor and I did see a photo of his wife and three kids.  But, Doc, if you want to keep looking, I'll keep trying to look better.

"Keep the training up."

Up and up and up?  Er, no.  I don't want to turn into a complete gym rat...or, even worse, the former governor of California.  I expressed my concerns with
my doctor.  I would like to not become a muscle manufacturing machine.  We talked about adding a little more cardio to my weekly regimen.  And, oh, yeah, the Christmas cookies didn't help.

Everything else worked out perfectly. 

"You've got the bloodwork of a twenty-year-old, the muscle tone of a thirty-year-old, and the knees of an eighty-year-old. 

That averages out to 43 and I'll take that number, too.

See you again next Christmas, Doc.

Dinner last night:  Grilled cheese and bacon panini.