Hypothetically Speaking . . .

. . . . . . . . Because Humor Matters

Birthdays, BMI and Blood Pressure

Written By: Michael Rochelle - Oct• 23•17

The one time my pressure was ok.

A wise man once said that age, weight, and blood pressure are just like rent and taxes: at a certain point, they just go up. Maybe it was me who said that. Maybe I’m the wise man. Hmmm. Anyway, I was minding my own business the other day when my birthday came to “kick in the door, wavin the four-four.” Well, not exactly a four-four, but certainly close enough.

I won’t complain too much about turning a year older. As they say, having a birthday is way better than the alternative. But my question is, how would anyone know? Has anyone died and been like, “Nope, this ain’t for me. Who do I talk to about being alive again?” Maybe on the other side every day is your birthday. Maybe there you don’t have to pay student loans or credit card bills. Maybe there gyms are illegal—hopefully. But I digress.

Before making any grand birthday plans, I checked my bank account to see what type of funding I was working with. Apparently, as long as the cost was less than a quarter, I was free to do whatever I wanted. I checked with American Airlines and they informed me that there was absolutely nowhere I could fly on that budget. Even after I demanded to speak to a supervisor and claimed discrimination, they wouldn’t budge. However, I did make their no-fly list.

So, instead of traveling, I decided to keep it low-key and knock some things off my bucket list. Well, not exactly my bucket list, but I could at least visit a few of the places I had bookmarked on Yelp over the years. Some of these places may be familiar to you, but based on the reviews, I’m excited to check out this one restaurant called KFC and another one called Taco Bell. Maybe they will even sing “Happy Birthday” when I tell them it’s my big day. We’ll see. I’ll keep you posted.

In preparation for my birthday, I called my team of doctors to schedule my annual health tune up and oil check. I had barely stepped into the exam room before I was offended. The medical assistant tried to rush me onto the scale as if it were her favorite thing in the world to let people know just how fat they were. I calmly informed her that if I was going to get on the scale, there was only one way that was going to happen. I would have to be nude. There was no way those numbers would include my belt and my undershirt. Not this time.

When I finally stepped onto the scale, the lady slid the number up to 250 pounds and slowly inched her way down. When she got down to 200, I overheard her say “Really?” under her breath as if she was surprised I was still in the hundred range. It was then that I realized my fist was balled up. Before I did something I would later regret, I remembered the words of my dear, sweet mother. She said, “It’s 2017. If you haven’t verified for yourself, don’t just assume it’s a woman. You know what they say happens when you assume.”

Fortunately, the doctor came in right about that time, so there was no need for me to lay hands on the woman—or man—or whatever that was. I won’t assume. Although I had lost weight, the doctor informed me that I still failed the BMI chart. At 184 pounds I fell into the overweight category. For my height, a normal weight range would be from 125 to 169, meaning I would have to lose 15 pounds just to be one pound away from being overweight. Maybe this is what my mother meant when she said I would never be normal.

First of all, I haven’t been 125 pounds since World War II. Second, if I was anywhere below 169, I wonder if I would look healthy. The only good thing about me possibly being that small would be that I wouldn’t have to purchase a skeleton costume for Halloween each year. Instead, I could go as is and tell everyone, “I woke up like this.”

If I’m being honest, there may be a few places where I could stand to lose a few pounds. I mean, if I could lose five pounds from my nose, and ten pounds from each of my ankles, maybe then my team of doctors would be proud of me. Maybe then Golden Corral and other buffet establishments would allow me back on the premises. Apparently, my situation is so dire that even Nutrisystem found me on Twitter and offered to help. I could be their next spokesperson. Who knows?

40% Off The Cost, Or Off My Weight…Hmm.

Not long after being diagnosed as overweight, the medical assistant snatched my arm up in the air, slapped a cuff on it, and began taking my blood pressure. I tried to breathe deeply and meditate, which are techniques I learned from a guy I met on the street who said he could tell me my future for $1.99. I’m pretty sure he was homeless, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t learn something from him. I don’t discriminate. However, I did wonder who the invisible person was that he kept talking to and why he kept calling me Lynda. Maybe that’s what my name means in his native language.

Anyway, I knew that if I wanted to have a good reading, I would have to relax. I thought about puppies. I thought about kittens. I thought about the “Red Wedding” scene on Game of Thrones. As I expected from how tightly I was gripping the exam table, the results weren’t good. “146 over 90,” she said proudly. “Of course, it’s high,” I yelled. “You just called me fat and told me I may not live past lunch!!!” I would have slapped her, but I remembered that I hadn’t physically verified whether it was a female yet.

Even though I opted not to hit him or her, apparently you aren’t supposed to yell at medical assistants. Oh, also, you certainly aren’t supposed to snatch up a syringe off the counter and use it to threaten your doctor to take your blood pressure again or else. I had to learn this the hard way. Fortunately, before the cops arrived, the doctor complied with my request. This time my reading was 155 over 95. To this day I have no idea why it changed so quickly. Maybe I was stressed. Police officers do tend to have that effect on people.

High Blood Pressure!!!

If being arrested wasn’t bad enough, I had other lessons I needed to learn that day. After accepting that I had failed both my BMI and blood pressure tests, I decided to share my numbers with a few friends and coworkers—BIG MISTAKE! I wanted them to feel sorry for me, but instead they started trying to hold me accountable and counting my calories. Before I knew it, cheesesteaks, bacon, cakes, and biscuits were all being snatched right out of my mouth. Worst of all, one of my coworkers said I could have no more fries. NO MORE FRIES!!! I screamed. I yelled. I grabbed a syringe off the counter.

Ok, I know what you’re thinking. Why are there so many syringes just lying around everywhere. I wonder the same thing. My shrink says I could have handled the situations differently. I don’t like when people I pay disagree with me. Fortunately for her, all of her counters were bare. She even went so far as to snatch up the pen off the table just in case I got any clever ideas. Good thinking. Pens and syringes are basically cousins.

I share all of this with you, my dear blog readers, to let you know what I’m going through. Because of my big mouth, if I eat anything other than carrots and lettuce, I have to do it in the comfort of my closet or the third bathroom stall at work after hours when the lights are out. It’s pretty sad. That noted, if you see someone snacking on a bacon cheeseburger under a bridge, or if you hear someone moving around in your basement or attic, don’t worry, it’s probably just me trying to eat pepperoni in peace. Accountability sucks!

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/michael.rochelle1
Instagram and Twitter handles: @mikeyllo

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