I recently had two of my annual doctor visits, one with Dr. Grigsby (because I don’t see very well) and the other with Dr. Willingham (because I have high blood pressure). I like both men and enjoy our annual conversations. And I like the visits in spite of the fact they take a long time and a significant chunk of my day. In both offices I spend my time going from room to room, machine to machine, test to test, and waiting between each. But I always have a book on my phone, so waiting isn’t so bad.
This time, when I was at Dr. Willingham’s office, they asked me step onto the scales. This is usually an unhappy revelation; my weight is one situation I can’t blame on aging. It’s entirely my fault. After I absorbed the bad news and blamed it on my shoes (running shoes that were surprisingly heavy – about fifteen pounds, I’d say) and my jeans (Wrangler Relaxed Fit, so you know they must weigh another fifteen), the nurse started leading me toward the examination room. I stopped her when we passed the wall-mounted device for measuring height. I asked her to tell me how tall I was. I hadn’t actually measured my height since college.
My fears, concerns, and premonitions were confirmed. I was not 6’ tall like I’ve told anyone who asked (almost always in the medical field (no one else cares)) since that time in college. I’ve suspected, however, that my height has diminished through the years since I now buy 32” inseam jeans instead of 34” like I did the first thirty years of my adult life. I blamed it on the fact I used to wear bell-bottomed jeans and walking on the hem until it frayed was a fundamental part of jeans wearing. At least in the seventies. But that was a ruse. I hadn’t worn bell bottoms since 1978. And while it might be true that jeans don’t shrink as badly as they used to, which would account for buying longer jeans back then, the fact was, I was the one who had been shrinking.
Or, and this is a real possibility, the person who measured me back in college got it wrong, or told it to me wrong, and I have been living the wrong story for forty-four years.
Why did it matter?
I’m not sure.
Maybe 6’ felt more manly to me. It’s certainly easier to convert to inches, easier to write down, and easier to rattle off when someone asks.
Maybe because 5’10” rather than 6’ means I am violating the height-weight ratio even more than I thought. This new piece of data meant I was more overweight than I claimed, or accepted, if only privately in the secret corner of my closet.
But I’ve decided, as I age, if I can’t happily embrace the changes I should at least be honest about them. I shouldn’t deceive myself about something trivial when I try so hard not to deceive myself with the bigger questions of life.
Well, I used a BMI calculator online, entering the newer, truer numbers, and it said, “Your BMI is in the overweight (bold font) category for adults of your height … a healthy range would be from 129 to 174 pounds.”
174 pounds seemed impossible enough, but 129 felt ridiculous. I doubt I’ve weighed 129 since junior high. Maybe since elementary school.
And, as Ron Popeil would say, there’s more.
Dr. Grigsby suggested I switch from 2.00 reading glasses to 2.25s. “It’s time,” he said. For me that meant tracking down all the 2.00s I had scattered around my bedroom and desk and backpack and pickup and wherever else, and replacing them.
The thing is, I’m not afraid of getting older. And I’m not afraid of the changes that come with that. I just wish I had more warning so I could formulate a plan. I’d like a list of what to expect in the next few years so I can plan accordingly.
But why would God want to furnish that? He cares more about our relationship than he does my precise navigation of aging. He cares more about me drawing closer to him than whether I make the right adjustments.
Apparently, February was my health and wellness month because a week after my two doctor visits I had a colonoscopy. When the nurse interviewed me beforehand, she handed me an iPad with questions asking for my response. Since the font on the screen was excessively small, I said, “Based on the people I saw in the waiting room, I doubt any of us can read this tiny print.” She agreed and read it to me.
When she got to the end, she asked the question of all questions, the one I’d been dreading most: “Mr. Simpson, how tall are you?”
For the first time in public, I sat up straight and said, “5’10”.” She smiled and nodded and entered the numbers as if it was no big deal.
That’s right.
No big deal.
“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32
Finest moments
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