With our new memberships at the local gym, we’re each treated to one complimentary fitness examination. It didn’t sound like something I’d pay for on my own — I know I’m not fit, that’s why I’m at the gym — but for free, I figured why not. It’s like I always say: why settle for qualitative when you can go for quantitative?
The routine my guide put me through was less of a “gauntlet” and more of a “candy-coated spank machine.” A few push-ups here, a few stretches there, a run around the track for 12 minutes, and that was about it. I’m hardly an athlete, but I was barely breaking a sweat with this thing. At one point, when the guy asked me if I wanted a drink of water, I took him up on it just so he wouldn’t feel bad.
I was dubious how much of a profile they could get of me from these little pokes and prods into my physique, so I was surprised when he came back with a seven-page analysis, filled with charts and graphs and clip art pictures of shirtless men on treadmills. I’ll spare you the details of my placements in the minor categories (average answer: fair to middling) and skip right to the pièce de résistance, my BodyAge.
Wanna guess? I’m 30, I can run a mile in about nine minutes, and I can lift every weight they’ve got on the leg press. Yet I can only do about 29 sit-ups in a minute, and I grow weary after about 20 push-ups. Which is all to say, I’ve got the body of a 29-year-old. Eat that, actuaries! I want my $5 premium increase back.
I was cruising on the good news for a few seconds until he pointed out the next stat, Obtainable BodyAge. It was 20, and it was followed by the regimen in which I’d have to engage to get it there. With all that effort, I wouldn’t have any time left to go do whatever it is a 20-year-old-ish body is supposed to (which was, as I recall, resolutely avoiding the gym and exercise at all costs). Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll stick to reveling in my youthful twenty-nine for now.