I had blood drawn the other day; the second time within a month. Because my company was providing it free-of-charge and I enjoy needles. If memory serves me, they usually do it much later in the year, which is why I went to my doctor a few weeks back and asked him for a workup. And because you can never be too careful.
I've always felt like I'm a "healthy" person. Yes, there are times when I inject burgers directly into my bloodstream, but that''s rather infrequent. (Read that last sentence as: Yes, there are times when I enjoy the Jucy Lucy that is the staple of Matt's Bar in the wonderful city of Minneapolis.) Plus I have a hard time seeing healthy as a relative term:
I can't see myself as completely healthy when I compare myself to my brother. The one who bikes to and from the train each day, plays frisbee on the weekends, and usually sprinkles in a run 4 times a week. Oh, and he's basically vegetarian. And it's harder to see myself as healthy when I realize that the heavier I get, the more belly button lint I have.
But then I compare myself to a lot of people I know and think, actually, I'm probably the fittest person here. Which is not a good thing. I told a friend I needed to lose some weight, and she replied, "Compare yourself to the people you work with." Which is sort of like saying, "Zach, everyone you work with is a serious philanderer. But since you only philander a bit, you're off the hook. After all, those people all philander a lot more than you." (I don't think all my co-workers are this way, I just wanted to see how many times I could work the word philander in to a sentence. Philander.)
So I'm trying to get back into shape. Or relative shape. You'll never see me lift my shirt to show off the Situation. First, that's just dumb. And second, it'll be entirely underwhelming. I'm too lazy that get in that sort of shape. And I don't want to shave my stomach.
I'm sitting in the chair, nervously, while the woman draws my blood. I get nervous, because I think it's like an algebra test. I didn't do enough to prepare and I'm going to fail. I imagine I'll get my blood work back and find my cholesterol is through the roof and my triglycerides are spiking. Yet the guy next to me is eating a extra-large Coney, despite the fact that we were told to fast for 8 hours before, and he'll be as healthy as an ox. And I can't even put it out of my mind, because I still have a bruise where she apparently didn't do the best of jobs at sticking me. Three weeks. That's when I should know. And if you see me back at Matt's, ordering up a basket full of Jucy Lucy's, you'll know that despite my best efforts, I failed my blood work, and it's time to give in.
