Is this pass/fail, or are we getting a grade?
We have our life insurance exams!
We've been preparing, like marathon runners, by not eating fatty foods or drinking alcohol. It's been positively grueling.
We start off with the urine sample. We're to pee in a tiny cup and then pour it between two even tinier tubes, which we are only to fill halfway. This is harder than it sounds. I end up dripping urine down my hand as I pour back and forth between the tubes and the cup, trying to get the perfect measure.
"Well, that was gross," I announce as I return to the dining room and explain the situation in detail to the nurse.
She smiles patiently.
She prepares to take my blood pressure. As soon as the cuff comes out, I feel my heart begin to race. If you've read this blog from the very beginning, you may recall that my first post was about the Pressure to Perform on blood pressure readings. If you've read this blog from the very beginning, you also have my deepest condolences.
"Oh my!" she exclaims. I panic: 190/100? 210/30? "I just noticed Fabio."
Our pranks exhausted, for the moment at least, our Fabio cut-out stands proudly in the corner of our dining room, thwarting potential burglars with his massive and spooky nighttime presence.
"That was the DNB's Christmas present this year," I tell her proudly.
"I asked for it especially," he chimes in.
She asks whether we've taken any illegal drugs. I can't be sure whether this is part of the exam or her own general wondering in response to our having a giant Fabio standing in our home. I begin giggling uncontrollably. It's because I'm thinking who answers yes to that question?? The nurse probably thinks I'm high.
Although we take the process VERY SERIOUSLY, we're nearly faint from the lack of fat in our diets and remain a bit flippant during the final half of the questionnaire. I can't tell whether the nurse thinks we're annoying or a Lovely End to her day.
"Occupation?" she asks the DNB, the final question.
"Uh, doctor," he answers. One of her eyebrows raises.
"Occupation?" she asks me.
"Attorney," I say sheepishly. The other follows it.
She makes a sound in the back of her throat like she's trying to choke something back.
"She's choking in disbelief because you're being SO IMMATURE," I scold the DNB, finger wagging.
He punches me in the arm.
We've been preparing, like marathon runners, by not eating fatty foods or drinking alcohol. It's been positively grueling.
We start off with the urine sample. We're to pee in a tiny cup and then pour it between two even tinier tubes, which we are only to fill halfway. This is harder than it sounds. I end up dripping urine down my hand as I pour back and forth between the tubes and the cup, trying to get the perfect measure.
"Well, that was gross," I announce as I return to the dining room and explain the situation in detail to the nurse.
She smiles patiently.
She prepares to take my blood pressure. As soon as the cuff comes out, I feel my heart begin to race. If you've read this blog from the very beginning, you may recall that my first post was about the Pressure to Perform on blood pressure readings. If you've read this blog from the very beginning, you also have my deepest condolences.
"Oh my!" she exclaims. I panic: 190/100? 210/30? "I just noticed Fabio."
Our pranks exhausted, for the moment at least, our Fabio cut-out stands proudly in the corner of our dining room, thwarting potential burglars with his massive and spooky nighttime presence.
"That was the DNB's Christmas present this year," I tell her proudly.
"I asked for it especially," he chimes in.
She asks whether we've taken any illegal drugs. I can't be sure whether this is part of the exam or her own general wondering in response to our having a giant Fabio standing in our home. I begin giggling uncontrollably. It's because I'm thinking who answers yes to that question?? The nurse probably thinks I'm high.
Although we take the process VERY SERIOUSLY, we're nearly faint from the lack of fat in our diets and remain a bit flippant during the final half of the questionnaire. I can't tell whether the nurse thinks we're annoying or a Lovely End to her day.
"Occupation?" she asks the DNB, the final question.
"Uh, doctor," he answers. One of her eyebrows raises.
"Occupation?" she asks me.
"Attorney," I say sheepishly. The other follows it.
She makes a sound in the back of her throat like she's trying to choke something back.
"She's choking in disbelief because you're being SO IMMATURE," I scold the DNB, finger wagging.
He punches me in the arm.
