Why don't the perverts ever call me?

I don't think anyone likes receiving unexpected phone calls. I don't mean bad news phone calls though. I mean those calls from someone you don't want to talk to, or those calls that ask you for donations, or the calls from someone who's crying hysterically on the other end of the line.

I had an unexpected phone call today from a number I didn't recognise. But it was my work phone, so I had to answer it. And it was the gym bunny at The Cult, asking me to book in for a fitness assessment. I know, I laughed too.

But then I realised that he was actually serious and all new members who use the athletic facilities are encouraged to come in for a physical to get a better idea of their general state of health. I decided against telling the poor boy about my ankle injury that has made swimming impossible (thereby making me a few pounds heavier - medicinal eating, you understand). I have the impression that medicinal eating is an unconventional remedy I have enthusiastically embraced but is not otherwise sanctioned by the medical community at large.

So instead of boring him with the story of swollen ankles, I opted to declare myself generally unfit, hoping that he'd respect my frank self-diagnosis and leave me alone. Not so. In fact, he is now more resolved than ever to hook me up to an array of machines and test me rigorously, and not in a way I'm going to enjoy I'm sure. He even gave me his cell phone number so I'd find him anywhere and make my consultation appointment at any time. Gulp.

I wonder how long I can play phone tag with a guy from the Athletics Department. Something tells me that I'll run out of puff well before he does.