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Tuesday, October 8, 2013

Bad News.

My wife, (my delicate little flower, my wonderful little angel) made me go to a health screening this morning.  It was a pretty simple procedure, they drew my blood, checked my blood pressure, checked my height and weight, and measured me around the waist.  No big deal.

They were all very nice, and respectful.  And after I was done with my height, and weight check she said "ok, we're done."  I thought I was home free.

"I can go?"

"No, no, no.  There are some chairs over there, take a seat and a 'health consultant' will be with you shortly."
Dang, this is trouble, I knew it wasn't going to be that easy.

"Maybe you should lay off
the donuts, Sir."
I sat down, and soon a soft spoken, gentle seeming woman came and asked me to follow her.  We sat down, and she started comparing the numbers on my sheet with "optimal numbers" from a form and her voice grew somber, grim, and the air grew cold.

Soon she just handed me the papers, and asked me to leave.

"Probably the best thing you can hope for is to die in a plane crash."  She said, taking a sorrowful look at the form she handed me.

"But, I hate to fly,"  I explained.

"Maybe you will get lucky and a plane will fall onto your car on your way to work this morning."  She offered hopefully.  "Please, sign here, and give me back the pen, you won't need it."

"Could I get a second opinion?"  I asked.

"Ok, your hair looks awful, and your mustache makes you look ridiculous."  Oh no, that really hurt, I thought my hair looked good today.

It was kind of a rough way to start my day, but when nobody was looking I grabbed a couple of pens from the reception table, so things are looking up.