Ever since my tangle with cancer I’ve been telling Jen I feel older than my 37 years. Cancer has a way of shaving years off your life . . . or adding years to it, depending on how you look at it.
They say you’re only as old as you feel and I’ve been saying I feel in my early to mid-forties (though I admit I have no idea what early to mid-forties feels like–how could I?)
Well, now I have proof.
The health insurance provided by my employer has a website where members can take a Health Assessment test and find out their “actual” age. You answer a battery of tests about past medical history, diet, activity levels, stress levels, and basic health questions about weight, height, blood pressure, cholesterol, the works. In the end you get a “health report” stating your risk levels, offering suggestions for attaining a healthier lifestyle, and your “actual” age.
Okay, so my chronological age is 37. Apparently that means nothing, because my actual age is 43.
Now here’s the kicker. Jen took the same assessment. Her chronological age is 32. Actual age? 26!
So over the course of a few minutes we went from 5 years between us to 17. Talk about robbing the cradle.
And how do I feel about all this? Honestly, it’s no surprise. I knew the whole cancer thing dug into my life expectancy and it bothers me not one bit. While interesting, the assessment means nothing. I know full well I could live to be 90 or I could live to be 37. It’s in God’s hands. I’ll do my best to stay healthy, do what the doctors tell me to do, make the most of every day and opportunity, and leave it at that.
And hey, forty-something isn’t that bad!