I’m officially claiming the title of The Fittest Fat Man in Philly. Throw down, my endomorphic brethren.
I just went to my first comprehensive physical in…10 years. I got blood work and man, I hate to say it – okay, I had to pee in a cup a week before. I wasn’t holding out hope that my lab work would be great. Even though I finally gave up burgers this year, I was thinking the accumulation of all that beef wasn’t gonna be good on Frankie’s heart.
The first sign that things were going well is when I got my blood pressure taken. 118/80. The male nurse then took my resting pulse. 67 bpm. Then he said, “I want to check that blood pressure again. That seems too good.” He checked. 120/80. Um, that would be known as ideal.
My lab work was great. My cholesterol was 169. Great. Same with liver function, thyroid, kidneys, heart enzymes.
My doctor said, “You’re a boring patient.” I said, “Yeah, it’s cruel, ice cream and burgers, and I get the good numbers.” He said, “I’ve had 110 lb. women in here who do yoga five days a week and they’re the ones with high cholesterol and blood pressure. It’s just good genetics for you.”
I’ll go with good genetics, because even though I’m The Fittest Fat Man in Philly, I probably don’t deserve the title. At least the “Fittest” part. But I’ll thank my lucky stars.
The only downside about all that medical mirth? I don’t get to convince myself that I’m dying of the latest disease from the ABC Movie of the Week.
