Don’t you just love it when medical professionals come up with really scary-sounding names for procedures (even THAT word is scary!) that are actually not all that bad?

I had to report to the hospital on Monday for — get this — spirometry.  No, it’s not an examination of disgraced 1970s vice presidents.  It’s a breathing test.

The technician was no friendlier than absolutely necessary, or maybe she really was an android.  Anyway, after weighing me and measuring my height, she stuck me in this little plexiglass box that reminded me of a Star Trek Next Generation away vehicle.  Then she gave me nose clips and a little plastic insert to stick into a hose and try to blow my internal organs through.

We –OK, I — did the test three times.  The results showed up graphically on a computer screen, and while I have no idea what I was looking at and knew better than to ask Ms. Stepford for an interpretation, I can tell you all three lines were really close together, so apparently, I was consistent.  I don’t know if that’s good or not.

That was it.  Worry about this stupid thing for a week and a half, blow in a tube three times, and leave.  Goodness only knows when (or if) I’ll ever get an interpretation.  But at least no blood or politicians were lost.