Stress tests slurp shit. In only six pride-obliterating minutes they reduce me to a blubbering lump of hyperventilating meat. I readily admit that I’m not a young buck, but 47 isn’t that old. Like Garth Brooks sang, “I’m much too young to feel this damn old.”
(but garth brooks is not in the sad shape we’re in.)
A bit of background, I suffered a heart attack 15 years ago. Thus my need for these yearly shamings.
Continue reading “I Fail Stress Tests”
February 1st was my 47th birftday day. Hooray! I survived another year. And… ?
I don’t mean to be a Debbie Downer. “Boo-hoo. Poor me.” It’s just 47 isn’t a noteworthy year—like 21, 30, 40, 50, etc. In other words, I’m simply a year older. So what? At this point, i.e. midlife, and after a “widowmaker” heart attack at 32, survival is about as good as it gets.
(there’s going out to eat several times on other people’s dime.)
Continue reading “Happy Birftday Day, Poo Poo Pants”