On a recent trip to the gym, my friend dragged me along with her to get our BMI checked. Although not unhappy with my body, I’m not exactly where I want to be on a fitness level. I didn’t want to do it. It didn’t help that one of the trainers would be involved in this circus.
This device that one holds in their hands with both arms extended literally undresses you and reads your fitness soul.
But… seeing as my last BMI check was years ago in college– after the freshman 10 and over a year of no workouts– in which my Phys Ed teacher soured his face at my question, “Is that number good or bad?” yeah, I was admittedly more than a little curious as to what my current number would be. I mean, why fear? I work my butt off. Not literally. My butt’s still there and it’s a good thing. But I digress.
After a minute or so of this machine shooting some signal through my body that I’m certain will cause cancer, the answer is in…
It’s definitely better than the past. Much better. But it ain’t where I want it. The trainer looks at some chart (I never trust those) and tells me, “You’re in the good to excellent range for your age.” Oh, for my age. Thanks. Thanks a lot.
In my brain, I was no lady. I spit in the face of that chart and gadget and walked away with my nose in the air. For your age. That backhanded compliment goes right up there with you look great for having kids. But that’s another post, another day.