You need to move more,” said the person properly known as a physician’s assistant. I prefer to call her the Sorcerer’s Apprentice.
“Forget it,” I said. “I moved 23 times before I was 40 years old. I’m not loading another truck with furniture.”
“That’s not what I was talking about,” replied the health care professional you see when the doctor no longer considers you interesting.
“I know,” I answered. “I just thought I could delay the inevitable a few seconds.”
I chuckled to let her know it was a just a small joke. Too small, as it turns out. I got nothing. Not even a smile.
“Just get some exercise,” she said.
Ah, exercise. How I have not missed thee.
I haven’t always felt like this. I used to be a dedicated gym rat. I even had my own professional-level gym to rat around in. Then the warranty ran out on my body and things that used to make me feel good — i.e., picking up extremely heavy objects and putting them down in precisely the same place — began causing damage. My time in the gym dwindled as I told myself I needed to get some recuperation started on my tired old bones, muscles, joints, tendons and ligaments. Also fingernails and hair.
As you can see by those last two, I was just looking for any excuse I could find. It never occurred to me to slow down or lighten up. I hurt, and I wanted to quit.
This was the start of a long road downhill that led to me gaining an enormous amount of weight and endangering my health — as in making it unlikely I’d have enough birthdays to collect much in the way of retirement benefits. That in turn led to the surgery I had earlier this year, which caused some pretty dramatic weight loss but which also requires I see a lot of health care professionals. And that is the reason I was dealing with The Unsmiling One who was telling me to get off my shrinking keister in order to shrink it some more.