Just in case the snacks were a test, I opted out. I sent some SnapChats out to my followers, alerting them of my body riddled with cysts. The door opened, and Mr. Buff Body smiled.
Him: "What do all the ghosts say on Halloween?"
Me: "That isn't my name."
Him: "What? Come on? What do all the ghosts say on Halloween?"
Me: "Yep. I get it. But that isn't my name. It's pronounced differently."
Him: "What are the greatest speakers in the world?"
Okay, Mr. Buff Body had a sense of humor.
Me: "Why is it that when a fat girl has to have an exercise test, they send the buff guy?"
Him: "You think I'm buff? Thanks. Seriously? You think I'm buff?"
Me: "I'm a romance writer. I know buff."
Him: "Well, thank you. That makes me feel great."
He and I got along just fine. He tested my lungs first. I blew into a tube attached to a monitor. Been there and done that with Madison and my mom, so I knew what to do. He had me do it three times. I have the lungs of a 41-year-old.
My Brother: "Well, yeah. Anyone that has heard you talk doesn't doubt your lung capacity. You haven't stopped talking since I called you. I'll never worry about your lungs."
Mr. Buff Body told me he heard that I wasn't going to run. I gave him the knife remark. He told me he would skip the treadmill.
Me: "What? Uh, no. Just because I won't run doesn't mean I can't exercise--I can walk the hell out of that treadmill. I expect you to do all the normal tests on me. I'm not a wimp. I just don't run because of my herniated disc."
Him: "Okay, then. Hop on."
Me: "Why is there a sign that says I can't hold on to the treadmill? I always hold on to the treadmill."
Him: "Not today, you don't. Take off your shirt."
Me: "Excuse me?"
Him: "You heard me. Take off your shirt."
Okay. I'm a romance writer. In my world, this means one thing, and as I looked around that room, my mind may or may not have run through the comfort levels of this aging body on the floor, the treadmill, and the countertops before reality struck.
Me: "Seriously? It's bad enough that I have Mr. Buff Body giving me this test. Now I have to go shirtless?"
Him: "I have to hook you to the heart monitor. Easier to do with your shirt off."
Arg. Humiliating experience. I barely take my shirt off to shower, people. But I was here for a reason, and so I took off the shirt and let him stick me with electrodes and leads or whatever he was attaching to my body. Even when he told me to "lift the girls," I obeyed all the while thinking about how this experience just might get me to the gym more often.
Him: "How's your heart right now?"
Me: "Relax, Mr. Buff Body. It's beating, but the no shirt kind of dampened the attraction."
Him: "I'm trying to get into your book."
Me: "You're too short. And young. How old are you?"
Him: "Twenty-six"
Me: "You're a baby. I could be your mother. But the scruff you got going on the face is something I could use. What do you call that?"
Him: "Scruff. Do you like it? It's new."
It went that way through most of the testing. I liked him. I had to walk the treadmill shirtless, which definitely cut down on the sweat level for me. I might rethink the no shirt while exercising thing. There was a board with names and numbers on it, and I asked him about that. They were records set by people. That got my competitive juices going, and I told him I wanted to set a record. He refrained from laughing, kept turning up the treadmill's speed, and, boo-ya, I kept pace. He asked me to look at a chart from 1-20 with 1 being easy and 20 terribly difficult.
Him: "What number are you?"
Me: "Uh, 13. Somewhat difficult."
Him: (turning up the speed) "We go until your heart rate reaches 142 or you say 14. Are you there yet?"
Me: "Am I near to setting a record?"
Him: "In about eleven more minutes."
Me: "Then, I'm still at 13."
I reached 142 at seven minutes and some change, and he made me cool down. Pfft. If I had known how things were before starting, I would've ignored the questions he asked and concentrated more on my breathing. I could've made that board. I let it go.
I had to do some push-ups, some planking, and some wall crunches. I did them, although he was okay with me skipping. Please, Mr. Buff Body. I can handle anything you throw at me. I did them all. I did ten girlie push-ups, which I'm not sure counted, but that was considered "average".
I scored "above average" on my flexibility, which was awesome compared to other flexibility results I've had. I only held my plank for 35 seconds, and that's only because Mr. Buff Body turned around to write down something, and I let my knees drop for a minute, proving a point--never turn your back on the patient. He wrote "needs work" for planking.
I stood against a wall and squatted. I did not hold that for a minute, nor did that test make it on the result sheet. I think Mr. Buff Body threw that one in for his own grins.
Bam, it was over. As he led me back to the waiting room, he asked about my daily exercise routine and then suggested swimming. Yeah, thanks, kid.
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