I had three main fears about taking a stress test:• I'd have a heart attack on the treadmill.
• I would survive the actual test, but the results would definitively prove I did have something more than an overactive imagination causing my occasional chest pains.
• I'd survive, have a clean bill of health, but my wife -- who was also taking one that day -- would kick my ass in the time trials.
I readily admit that I have ceded most of my so-called manhood in this married life. She brings home the bacon, I save the drippings in a Martinson's coffee can for making gravy; she manages the household expenses, I clip coupons and take them to the Stop 'n' Shop on triple-bonus cash back day. I'm cool with all this because hey, the chicks dig it – once they pick themselves up off the floor from the laughter and call their husbands or boyfriends to goof on me.
However, I will not lose to My Love in a foot race.
She's completed four marathons and several half-marathons in the 20 years we've known each other. She's also kayaked across Long Island Sound – twice! – while I was sidelined with panic attacks and seasickness. However, on land, in anything under a few thousand yards, she's eating my dust assuming one creates dust when running, as I do, with the weight of an imaginary elephant on his back.
No sooner did I stumble out of the torture chamber, uh, stress test room, then I came across My Love in the waiting room, sipping on vitamin water with a wedge of lemon in it. (I might have been hallucinating from lack of oxygen, but I also think she had a little umbrella in it and she was using a Crazy Straw.)
"How'd (cough) you (hack) do?" I asked.
"I did well," she said. "Made the 'good health' category."
"So (blech) did (wheeze) I!"
"I could have made 'excellent' but it would have meant two more minutes of torture on that machine."
"Me, too! (groan) Wanna go make out (ack) in a supply closet?"
"Stop it."
"So," I asked, "what was your time?"
"I got the 'good' category."
"I know that, but what was your time?"
"I didn't know this was a competition?"
"It's not," I lied. "I'm just curious. I've given up on you ever telling me your weight, so humor me on this one."
"Bite me."
"Any time. Now what was your time? I did 22 minutes, 17 seconds. 'Fess up."
After throwing on my "concerned spouse" look and laying it on thicker than the foundation and crack sealer shoring up Kathie Lee Gifford's face, she admitted to doing a little more than 17 minutes.
"What?! Women only have to do 17 minutes to qualify for 'good'? What happened to equal rights? Did past generations of women just burn their bras in vain? I declare reverse sexism! GEN-der BI-as! (clap-clap-clapclapclap-clap) GEN-der BI-as!"
However, deep down, under the façade of protest and insult, I laughed the laugh of a man whose freshly shaved chest was swelling with personal pride.
Unless what I'm feeling in there is excessive cardiac fluid.
Can I get a defib over here, stat?
Stamford native Kevin McKeever, a married father of two, is a freelance writer and editor. He also writes the humor blog, Always Home and Uncool, and is a contributor to DadCentric.com. He spent 10 years as a reporter and editor for local newspapers, another nine creating and running the employee communications program for a Fortune 200 company, and then he wised up.
His humorous view of health and wellness, "Rubbing It In," is featured regularly in issues of Aetherial Living.
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