By lex, on October 11th, 2006
Scene: Naval Medical Clinic, NSA Bahrain. Your correspondent sits on an examination table, enduring the preliminaries required to score some Ambien off of an actual doctor, once the fetching young corpsman finishes asking him whether or not he’s allergic to drugs (no), smokes (no), drinks alcoholic beverages (occasionally – all, right so there’s a lot of occasions) and takes his blood pressure, temperature and pulse. She looks at the screen with wide, innocent eyes, turns to him and says –
FYC: Do you PT often sir?
YHS: Well, yes, pretty often. Why do you ask?
FYC: Well, it’s your resting heart rate. That’s pretty low for sitting down. It means your heart is pumping efficiently.
YHS: Well, you know. I try. It’s important. Ahem. *Cough*
FYC: How old are you sir?
FYC: (Almost gushing now) Sir! That’s great for a man of your age.
FYC: I mean.
YHS: Send the doctor in, won’t you?
FYC: Yes sir!
For a man my age. These days it’s always with the age. Why does it have to be an age thing?
Brat. If it weren’t for chivalry and Virginia I might have brained her with my walker.