After three months of useless boredom, I had to do an exit interview with the nosy bitch dietician at my Cardiac rehabilitation program.
I actually also did an entry interview, which is uncommon for her. She is often so busy and distracted, that she doesn’t talk to new enrollees until they’ve been in the program for a month – or two. With me, she had START and STOP data to compare.
She has a high-tech little machine that you stand on, barefoot, and lift a small crossbar. It sends neuro-electricity through you, to measure muscle and fat mass. Somehow, it also calculates biological age, as compared to actual calendar age.
During/after my heart surgery, I lost 20 pounds, dropping from 210 pounds, to 190, where I am remaining. On my admission, it said that my biological age was 67, for a man of 80 years. She was pleased with that. She’s had 67 year-old people with a biological age of 80.
While my weight has remained the same, her little toy says that I’ve lost 4-1/2 pounds of belly fat, and gained 4-1/2 pounds of muscle. I guess all that exercise wasn’t as useless as I thought it was. On my way to the door, her electronic 8–Ball says that my biological age is now 65.
To justify her position, she babbled about sodium, trans-fats, fiber, and cholesterol. It took me 80 years to clog up my heart. Now that it’s been retreaded, it should be good for another 80 years, especially since I’m now taking anti-cholesterol medication. I may celebrate with an order of poutine. After six months, the air-fryer that the wife impulse-bought, remains in the basement, in its original packaging.









