Blood Pressure Cuff Attack

Being 50 Pounds overweight is hindering my thriving. Commited to health, I rejoined the YMCA this week. First requirement to begin my transformation was establishing my present condition. A beautiful young slender trainer weighed me: I won't share that shocking reading.

Next she handed me a small plastic wallet sized instrument: the BMI (Body Mass Index) to hold in my hands with my arms outstretched. In seconds this little monster buzzed and the thin YMCA trainer's eyes widened as she saw my "lard" content. I whirled around and inspected the chair I had been sitting in. "What's wrong Mrs. Martin?" she asked. "Oh, I don't want to leave grease spots in your chair. With a fat percentage that high, who knows ?" I lamented.

Thin, lovely, kind Y-trainer shrugged. Bless her heart, I bet that little BMI works itself silly finding any fat cells to measure in her.

Next she slid a blood pressure cuff on my arm. "Oh, no, I'm gonna' have to pull out the BIG one for you," she sighs. "Now, I'm so fat I need the Added Dimension, Chubby, Big Girl, Plus, Jumbo, XXX blood pressure cuff. This is not good, " I'm thinking.

Next I'm brutally attacked by the mega super-sized blood pressure cuff. Hissing, huffing sounds pound out of this automatic blood pressure machine, the cuff blows up like a Macy's Day balloon. The pressure squeezes my arm until the pain is excruciating. Little thin trainer backs away from the table. The machine is on its own. My fingers swell up like a rubber glove blown up with air. My fingers turn red and purple. The only thing coming out of cute thin trainer is, " Oh, my. it's never done this before." Finally I couldn't stand it any more, and I cried out with pain, "Look at my hand. Is this supposed to act like this?" Thin one begs me, "Well, see if you can take it for just a bit more, please." Finally I ripped the cuff off my arm and laid my head on the desk. "Oh, no," I'm thinking, "I'll probably leave a grease impression of my face on this desk."

Thin one gathers the plastic beast in her hands and massages it. With an upbeat encouraging perky voice she puts the BEAST on my arm again, "Let's see if we can get this to work now." I'm thinking, "Easy for you to say, it doesn't cut off your arm blood supply." But I know I am to work with this professional to get to my thriving physical health. I'm on a mission and I will not be stopped. Hesitantly I submit to letting her place this boa constrictor killer on my arm, one more time.

And away we go again with the automatic pumper. Just the hissing sound made my heart pound. The squeezing hurt my arm terribly, but this time it stopped short of blowing up all my fingers and they only turned to a light purple. Imagine this: my blood pressure was elevated. I tried to explain to thin one that I'm sure the episode with the blood pressure cuff attack elevated it. I told her what my usual blood pressure readings were. It didn't phase her. She added these ghastly numbers on my file along with her BMI readings (lard content.)

Then she tried to cheer me up with, "Well, Mrs. Martin, you've got a great place to begin." Umm, I interpreted that to mean any changes you make will be better than where you are right now.

Any of you got any tips to get me going in this wellness venture?