It's official. I'm getting old. My doctor told me.
I went for my annual physical a month ago, the one I get religiously every decade or so. Usually my blood pressure is obscenely low, my cholesterol is made of silk, and my pulse is often sampled by a local techno band because of it's perfectly rhythmic qualities. The only family history of illness I have is an occasional deviated septum, a couple of hernias, and one long-lost uncle who died in a clash with a rabid wildebeest in on an African safari.
But not this time. The news came down like a piano tied to a rope outside a 4-story walkup. It went sort of like this...
Nurse calls: Hi, I've got the results of your blood tests.
Me: Do tell.
Nurse: Everything's normal, including your overall cholesterol, but your Good Cholesterol is too low. You need to start working out.
Me: How did you know I don't work out?
Nurse: Oh please...
So that's it. My overall plans to coast into my golden years by spending every evening in front of the plasma with a bowl of Moose Tracks in one hand and a handful of my kids' Goldfish crackers in the other is for naught. I need to get my ass off the couch.