I showed up at 8:15 for an 8:30 appointment with an empty stomach and low expectations.

That’s the deal with the annual physical—no breakfast, no coffee, and a brain running at about 60% of its usual speed. I don’t fast for spiritual reasons or wellness trends. I fast because my doctor needs clean blood numbers, and I comply like a slightly resentful teenager.

The elevator was out. I walked to the third floor instead of the second, which meant the man behind me who was more upset about the elevator than I was slipped ahead at check-in. He seemed like he needed the win more than I did.

The waiting room was generous with its space. Nobody had to sit near anyone else, which suited me fine. I have a tendency to turn my extrovert on in public, and once it’s on, it doesn’t always know when to stop. A stranger in a medical waiting room has things going on under the surface you can’t see. So I did what everyone else did. I stared at my phone like it owed me money.

They called me back second. First was the scale. Shoes weigh something. They used to account for that—a five-pound mercy rule, basically. Someone decided to eliminate it, and now the number just stares back at you. My BMI is what it is. A functional chubby-ness has carried me this far, and I’m not prepared to be dramatic about it.

The nurse ran through the standard questions, and I gave her honest answers, which felt like a small personal victory. At some point in your early-60s, you develop a reasonable ability to answer medical questions without editorializing.

Blood pressure: 122/68. I nearly fell out of the chair. When I give blood, which I do regularly and usually after at least one cup of coffee, that number climbs. This time I forgot the cuff was coming, which meant my body didn’t have time to manufacture anxiety about the reading. I’m holding onto this number like a trophy.

My doctor has a name that sounds like something you’d order at a tea shop, which I mean affectionately. He is good on the dialogue but a little lean on checking the reflexes. We had a brief negotiation about who was holding the microphone during my update, but we found a rhythm. He touched me exactly four times with the stethoscope. Four. I don’t know what number I was expecting, but it felt light for something called a physical.

I was hoping he’d look in my ears so I could mention my shower routine, but I suppose that joke keeps until next year.

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Upstairs for the blood draw, which is where the morning got interesting.

The waiting room was full. The promo board cycling between health tips and marketing content included a note that visually impaired patients should swipe with three fingers on the check-in screen. I sat with that for a moment

A woman came in with a four-year-old and a seven-month-old. I’d guessed three on the older one, which she politely corrected. There was one open chair next to me and one across the room. I asked if she’d like me to move so she could have two together. The baby was still in that loading-personality-coming-soon phase, but watching the mom manage both kids with one hand free reminded me we were all young and exhausted once.

One woman checked in, glanced at the open seat next to me, and immediately chose to lean against the wall until a chair opened on the far side of the room. I took no offense. If I had to choose between sitting next to a guy who might start a conversation and leaning against a wall, I might avoid me too.

When my wife Judy was still waiting for her draw and I was heading out, I gave her a fist bump. “See you at home, dear.”

A few people smiled. One older woman held onto it a second longer than the rest. Maybe she had a husband she adored. Maybe she missed one. Either way, she smiled like the gesture meant something, and that was worth the empty stomach.

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Monday, I’ll get the call about the results. Neither my doctor nor I is expecting anything alarming.

If I could write my own prescription, it would just say: daily laughter, refills unlimited. I’m pretty good at finding it. Family close, health stable, nothing urgent on the horizon.

Lucky doesn’t quite cover it, but it’s the closest word I’ve got.