My heart will go on. Just don't phunk with it. Because it's a heart shaped box.

Several weeks ago, I was working out and reading and texting and I got a bit dizzy.

So I slowed down and did some deep breathing and then just ignored the whole thing and continued to work out for the next couple of weeks.

And then it happened AGAIN, and I thought, huh, maybe this isn't normal, and maybe those disclaimers that are on the exercise machines telling you to stop exercising and see your physician if you get dizzy actually want you to do that.

So I continued to exercise, at a slower pace, but did ask the husband if he ever got dizzy when he worked out.

The look of what the fuck on his face told me he did not.  His words telling me he did not and that I should probably at least call the doctor made me think I should probably at least call my doctor.

So I emailed her.

And I got a call from her office asking me to come in.

I went in and we talked about what had happened and she was a bit concerned, and I was becoming more concerned, because nobody likes it when their doctor is concerned.  Nobody.  Not even hypochondriacs.  We want the doctor to say, "Psshaw, it's nothing."

We figured it was, in all probability and likelihood, due to my near constant inner ear fucked upedness.  But to be sure, she wanted to run some tests. 

The nice nurse wired me up like a ham radio and ran a test, which the doctor said was fine.  I was supposed to go get a complete echo something or other, though, just to make sure.

On my way out, I asked the nurse if it was o.k. to continue exercising.

She said she'd check with the doctor and meet me at the front desk. 

While I was paying for my visit [where is my OBAMACARE??], my doctor came over and said, "You can keep exercising, just work out at a lighter pace."  I said, "O.k., great."  She nodded and turned away, and then came back. 

Doctor:  I'm sure you'll be fine, but just go slow, because you know how all those athletes have heart problems and their hearts explode when they work out.  We don't want that to happen to you.

Me: . . . .

Doctor: [turns and walks away] [turns back around quickly and walks back] Not that that'll happen to you.  I'm sure it won't.  Just go easy.

Me: Uh. O.k.

So I really slowed down the workouts and went for the next round of testing, which entailed me laying on table in a front-opening gown with wired sticky tabs on me while a surprisingly nice guy gelled my top half up and poked and prodded me with an ultrasound thingy.  He made some small talk and we both eavesdropped on the old woman who was having some weird testing done in the next cubby area over.  She was really, really warm.  Really warm. I'm not sure where, but I simultaneously need and don't want to know.

Nice Guy said I was done, helped me up and said he'd wait outside the curtained area while I cleaned up and he'd walk me out.  It was like all of my one-night-stands had morphed into this moment of me, standing topless and wiping goop off my chest.  Ah, memories.

Anyway, I ended up tossing my bra in my purse, putting my shirt on and hitting the bathroom where I Silkwood Sponge Bathed my torso for about 10 minutes, trying to scrub all the shame goop off.  Which also brought back some memories.

My doctor got the results and my heart is nice and normal, and we figured the dizziness is probably part of the vertigo/inner ear craziness.  So that was good.

I wonder if Nice Guy will call me.