My doctor says I am in great shape—for someone my age.
That is one of those statements that is not as optimistic as it sounds. It’s sort of like saying “the least destructive hurricane” or “the best Adam Sandler movie.”
I went to the doctor for my annual check-up a while back. He decided I was in good health—for someone my age. But he sent me for a bunch of tests to get a second opinion.
At the lab, they tested everything. They drained some blood from my arm, some urine from my bladder, and some money from my bank account.
They even tested my memory. They asked for my date of birth. Twice. I don’t remember what I answered.
The lab tech then asked me which arm I wanted her to draw blood from. “One of yours,” I answered. If she wasn’t going to accept my answer, I don’t know why she asked.
After she was finished taking blood, she said, “Don’t do any heavy lifting with that arm for half an hour.” Is she kidding? I haven’t lifted anything heavy with either arm for fifteen years.
Then she asked if I could give a urine sample. Useless question. At my age, I can always give a urine sample. It’s not giving a urine sample that’s hard.
About a week later, the doctor called me back in to his office. He’d gotten the results back. Apparently I had passed all the tests, some with better scores than others. However, the doctor pointed out that the most troubling number was the one at the top of the page, next to “Age.” The number is 63.
I said, “There’s nothing wrong with that. That’s a solid C minus.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “but I am afraid it is heading toward the big D.”
“Nonsense,” I replied. “I’m heading for a B plus or an A, somewhere up in the 90s.”