Getting a Little Testy

I look at the six pony tails on the back of my head in the mirror. For a five year-old, she's done a pretty good job on my hair. I can't complain. It was a chance to give her one-on-one time without having to really commit myself. I'm too distracted for that.

I've been scattered all day, my mind whirling and swerving around what I really don't want to think about.
I'm stressed. I'm freaked out. There's a doctor appointment in the morning that has me in knots. The irony of it is...



it's a stress test. A cardio stress test to be exact.

My body has not been herself lately. I think we all know when something isn't right, but most of us are afraid to stand up to the uniform holding the degrees to say, "No, I'm telling you, something isn't right!"

I never stand up to that uniform.
It's not because I'm not assertive enough, it's just that my wicked body has a cruel sense of humor. I might drag myself to the phone to make the appointment, but it never fails that the day of, I'm turning cartwheels in the parking lot. So instead of looking haggard, pale and poorly, my cheeks are rosy, eyes are bright and I'm stammering about what used to be wrong with me. Every. time.

But on this rare occasion, the doctor knows I'm not crazy. The few results in her office sends me off to the lab to donate for more extensive tests.



The stress test is one of the last tests left. It's meant to clear me to start exercising again.  I want to prepare for a half marathon. That's a lie. Just wanted to see if you were still reading. I hate running. If the marathon was set up for walkers? I'd be all over that.

Husband wants to go with me. He thinks I'm going to die on the treadmill which I find funny because if I die on the treadmill, there's not much more he can do by sitting in the waiting room while I'm gasping my last breath than he can if he's at home with the kids. This will teach him for marrying an older woman. I know he still secretly wishes I would drop a few years and start running with him, but I didn't run when I was 24 and I won't be running now at... older than 24.

He's not alone in his worry about tomorrow's test, but we're worrying about different things. He's worried about single parenting, I'm worried about saving face.
I'm incredibly stressed-not that I will keel over because my ticker quits before the doctor lets me stop, but because I am so out of shape that I will flop over and humiliate myself.

Just how many people sit in on these tests? Do they gather at lunch and discuss how their jello jiggles like the big lady at 10.30am? Do they snicker about how their 75 year-old grandmothers can run longer than jello-jiggler lady?

I have to take my ponytails out for bed. I realize that 9.30pm is a little early to be going to sleep, but a part of me believes that more rest will increase my stamina. Stinking treadmills. Who invented them anyway?

Rest.
Hugely funny that I thought it would come and exact opposite of what I really get. I'm plagued by weird dreams of people I haven't seen in 30 years and I mangled the bedding with all of my flipping around.
I'm awake before the alarm goes off.

After my shower and extensive leg shaving (if I'm going to die, I'm going to look good), I begin the contortionist moves required to squeeze all of me into my sports bra. I'm trying not to exert myself so there's no energy wasted off of the treadmill, but I must resemble a pretzel by now and know that I may begin sweating if I don't sort it soon.  Surely these things aren't true to size?!

Finally dressed and mentally prepared for my impending humiliation, The Husband comes into our room, "Are you sure your test is today? The white board says it's tomorrow-the 17th".

Ahhh flip.

Maybe they can do a memory test on me while I'm there.