Someone had the brilliant idea of putting a BMI machine at work, which I and more than a couple of other colleagues took advantage of. It’s been ages since I weighed myself, much less get my other stats, so I was more than curious how I’ve fared these past years. I pretty much expected that I’d be far removed from my gym rat days when I remembered – or imagined – that my body fat count was in the single digits. After all the pan-fried pork, lack of cardio, and general obliviousness to most things healthy, I’m happy to report that the here and now isn’t too alarming.
Though I feel at times like a new-born Benjamin Button, bad back, achey joints and all, the results somewhat make me feel hopeful that it isn’t due to any hidden, lingering condition. Growing old, albeit curious, can really be a bitch sometimes.