You know those times when you have to laugh, or you’ll just lose it? That was me, a few months ago, all because I made the rookie mistake of going to my annual checkup.
Let me set the scene. I’m not a “doctor person.” I’ll go if something’s actively falling off, but that’s about it. After enough nagging from my mom and spouse, though, I finally caved. I arrived on time, which was pointless because they were running an hour behind. Nothing like a waiting room full of pamphlets on diseases you can’t pronounce to make you feel super healthy.
Eventually, I got called back, and after the usual questions—“Any allergies?” “Do you exercise?” “Shortness of breath?” (Only on every staircase, thanks for asking)—the nurse led me to The Scale.
I don’t know who invented The Scale, but I’m pretty sure they had a cruel sense of humor. Somehow, every year, my height stays the same, but the scale insists on going up. “Must be the shoes,” I muttered, as if my shoes weighed a pound each.
After more waiting in the exam room, my doctor finally arrived. We did the routine: blood pressure, reflexes, and then the dreaded blood draw. I’m the type who faints at the sight of a paper cut, so a needle in my arm felt like a full-blown horror show. “Barely any blood’s involved,” he assured me, which was not as reassuring as he thought.
Miraculously, I survived. The doctor gave me the verdict: “decent shape.” Not stellar, but not catastrophic. Then came his advice: “Make sure to laugh more—it’s great for the immune system.”
Finally, a prescription I could get behind! From now on, I’d be the healthiest person around, laughing at everything. I left the office practically skipping.
Cut to two months later, and I’m back at the doctor’s—this time with a sprained ankle after a run-in with a step stool and a can of soup. The doctor looked at me, raised an eyebrow, and said, “Maybe laughter isn’t the cure for balance?”
And that’s how I learned that laughter really is the best medicine—unless you’re also standing on a step stool.
