Let's get physical

I need to join the gym in my building. I've been eating way too many sandwiches and getting far too little exercise, and the result is some serious muffin-topping in most of my suits. It's nice that my new office building has a gym, but in order to use it I have to get a medical certificate from my doctor saying that I'm physically capable of exercising. Don't ask me why they need it; they have a form for everything here.

Desperate to shed some of my wedding weight, I made an appointment this morning with Dr. N. The only catch is that Doc N doesn't work every day of the week (this is France, remember?), and on his off days he has another doctor fill in for him. The receptionist doesn't bother to tell you in advance that Doctor N will be out; you just open the door and there's another doctor waiting for you. It's kinda like eating a box of chocolates; you never know what you're gonna get.

Anyway, the stand-in doc today was a woman, which would ordinarily be fine but in order to get my certificate I needed to have a complete physical. I repeat: a complete physical. The first thing she did after a few introductory pleasantries was to ask me to strip down. "Completely?" I asked. "Completely," she replied. I was really glad that I had prepped and groomed for this appointment more thoroughly than most men would have for a date, because Dr. What's-Her-Name ended up getting a gander at the full package.

She asked me to lie down and started to take my "at-rest" blood pressure. Considering that I was lying down buck naked while she was examining me, I was a bit surprised when she said that my heart rate and BP were normal. All was going as well as could be expected up until she said that she would need to take my "active" blood pressure. In order to get my heart rate up, she asked me to do thirty squat thrusts as low and as fast as I could. Did I mention that I was naked? There can be nothing more grotesque than watching an out-of-shape attorney doing thirty squat thrusts in the buff. She handled it pretty well, all things considered, but I could have done without all the laughing and pointing. The squinting was a little harsh, too.

After observing me bend and thrust from a variety of angles, including from behind and underneath, she took my BP and told me I could get dressed again. Of course, this was only after she took a few pictures and called the receptionist in to take a memo and draw a few sketches. She ended up giving me the certificate, but somehow I feel like she should have given me her number, too. Or at least tell me that she wanted to see me again. I just feel so ... used.