I held that weird device in my two sweaty palms, arms straight out in front of my chest. She took it from me almost immediately, asked my age, told me my number and directed my eyes to the chart on the table.
I smiled. I was ideal.
Not average, or low, or high. Ideal. Sounded pretty perfect to me. I was proud, and expected the gym's health and wellness person to share my joy.
No such luck.
She wanted to get me off my high cholesterol medicine (even though I failed already on a diet-and-exercise regime). She knew that there was more I could do and she and her trainers were ready to help.
I smiled, shook my head, told her I was satisfied with ideal and left.
I refused to be aggravated. I was having too good a time with ideal.
Really. What's wrong with ideal?