A few weeks ago I was in and out of Minute Clinics and doctor’s offices for a bladder infection that did not want to go away. I hate bladder infections and I hate telling people that I have one because I can just feel them thinking that I obviously don’t know the correct way to wipe. And I do know how to wipe. I do.
All of these doctor visits meant that nurses needed my statistics: weight, temperature, blood pressure, and heart rate. I love when they take my heart rate because I am beyond proud of my resting heart rate.
My resting heart rate is, like, 60. That means I’m excellent. And only a few beats from being athletic. Athletic!? Can you believe it? Days when I take the stairs I’m positive someone HAS to be waiting at the top with a medal because surely doing this much work deserves a medal. Or a tiara. An athlete I am not.
But resting heart rates don’t lie, my friend.
Every time I am reminded of this exquisite piece of machinery I call my body, I badger Mark about it…
Me: So tell me again. What does my amazing resting heart rate mean?
Mark: It means that your body is efficient.
Me: And 60 is excellent, right?
Mark: 60 is really good. And I bet it’s even lower since you’re supposed to measure it before you’ve even gotten out of bed.
Me: You mean really I may be an ATHLETE?
Mark: What? It just means you have a big heart-
Me: Filled with love.
Mark: What are you talking about? Listen, you’re like Lance Armstrong, ok? Can we go to bed now?
I don’t know if you are familiar with Lance Armstrong, but he is a BEAST. A SUPERHUMAN BEAST. I turned over to resolve my feelings about having superpowers on my own since my mere mortal husband needed “sleep”. Wimp.
My undeserved resting heart rate obviously meant that I had super powers, right? I thought about all the superheros I know and how they handled it when they first found out about their powers. But the only superhero I could think of was the little girl from Grey’s Anatomy who was having kids hit her in the stomach with baseball bats because her superpower was not feeling any pain. Which is cool, but not as cool as having a resting heart rate of SIXTY and possibly being an ATHLETE. Anyways, the little girl ends up having to have surgery to fix all the damage her fake superpowers did to her.
Mark: Marie, are you crying? What’s wrong?
Me: Please don’t let Dr. Burke operate on me to make my heart smaller and less efficient thus taking away my super powers! Promise me!
Mark: You have lost your mind.
Maybe so. But I will not lose my super powers.