So, You're having a good day?

Don't worry, we can fix that.

So John arranged for me to come down to his office at 12:30 today.  Their insurance company was on site and if I came down for a quick cholesterol/blood sugar test, we could get free money added to our medical spending account. Or whatever that flex-account is called.  Fine, I'll be there.  I'll even set a reminder on my phone so I don't forget.  I'm that much of a team player. You're welcome.

When we got there, there was one woman ahead of us. Once she was checked in it was our turn.  While John was answering general questions and signing in on the i-pad, it slipped out of his hand and hit me in the foot.  I hollered, "Hey, You hit me!" And the woman behind us said, "I saw that!" Me, "That's spousal abuse! I don't feel safe at home!" And hahahaha, we're all having fun. I'm such a good sport. Then I heard the woman, who had been ahead of us, who had moved on to the first station, being told, 'okay, slip off your shoes and step on the scale."

Waaaaaaaaait a minute? I'm getting weighed? Nobody said anything about getting weighed.
To John, "We have to get weighed? You said it was a pin prick."
John, "I don't know, just do whatever."
Me, "WE JUST ATE."
John, "Jennifer...."
Oh, don't you 'Jennifer' me. I literally have an entire predigested Jimmy John's roast beef sub sitting in my gut.  Some of it's still in my teeth, for christ's sake.

And OCD-girl doesn't just weigh herself unless 1) it is first thing in the morning, 2) she has mentally prepared herself to be weighed and 3) and this is really the key, has mentally prepared herself to 'just move on' afterwards because there's nothing that OCD-girl likes to get hung up on more than numbers. Yeaaaa, numbers!!  Geez, John, are you NEW?!?

Now it's my turn.
Guy, with absolutely zero medical training, "Have you been fasting?"
Me, "Not even a little."
Then he makes small talk while the i-pad it updating...
Guy, "So you painting today?"
Me, wearing clothing spattered neck to ankle with 90 different paint colors, "Yup, sure am."

See, I'm wearing my painting clothes because I will be painting later today. Luckily my painting clothes are overalls. And whenever I have a medical evaluation that consists of nothing but arbitrary measurements that fit neatly onto a fill-in-the-blank form, I prefer to be wearing the heaviest and bulkiest article of clothing that I own. Not only do my overalls have the standard 2 pounds worth of hardware attached to them, they also have an additional 3 pounds worth of dried paint smeared all over them. And, bonus points here, should easily add 7 inches to my waist. This is just fantastic. Hey, John, are you having fun? I'm having a fucking FANTASTIC time!

Station 1 guy, 'kick off your shoes and whatever else you don't want to be weighed with.'  I kick off my keds and take my phone out of my pocket. I really don't know what because at this point what's a few more pounds between friends. I step on the scale, I stand against the tape measure (well, at least I haven't shrunk) then came the body mass index.  I'm told to hold the little xbox driving controller device out in front of me, arms straight for 1 minutes.  What the fuck is this supposed to do?  It is totally bullshit. What could it possibly measure? Other then my pulse? It's too far away to even measure if I've been drinking which I totally would have if I'd know this was going to be happening after lunch. And the device changes every year because someone with a bogus phys-ed degree comes up with a new and improved device and 'oh those old calibers didn't take into account, blahblahblah and this magic wand will blahblahblah.' Ohh, just shuuuuuuut uuuuuuupp.

Moving on to next table,
Me <making controller motions with my hands to John> "That thing is totally bullshit! I mean wh..." John, "Ssshh!"
Hey, don't get snippy with me, this wasn't my idea.

And it's finally time for the promised pin prick. I sit at a table while a nice lady draws a few drops of blood.  Blood sugar is fine, blood pressure is fine, cholesterol fine. See now this is what I was expecting. Me sitting in a chair and someone measure things on the inside. Where the real mess is.
Lady, "Would you like to discuss your results with a medical specialist?"
Me, "Absolutely not. But thank you."
And she hands me my paperwork, in a beautifully printed folder with several colorful, informational sheets inside; the cost of which most likely offsets the cost-benefits of these pre-screenings.  But, hey, no one  asked me.

I waited until I got in my car to look over the numbers.  I had John's too, he had handed them off to me when we left the room, so I could compare the two. "hm.....waaait...how can my chols....but his bmi is....."
Then I start texting, "It says my body fat is 35.6% WTF???" That can't be right. Is 5% of that body hair that is not properly maintained? I knew I should have gotten my legs waxed last week. goddamn it....acceptable range for 'mature'....Mature??what the fuck is that supposed to mean??
John texts back, "That's not right. You know that."

Right. Sure, I know that. You know what else I know? I know we're not having Beef Stroganoff for dinner tonight. Hope y'all like salad.....35.6% my ass....