I had to get a medical exam as part of my employment. It’s Hungarian law. Fortunately, I was set up with a (female) doctor affiliated with my organization, so I didn’t have to find my own.
The doctor’s office was pretty small. The doctor, her assistant, both desks, and the examination bed were all in one room. A little odd.
The exam was pretty normal except that I had to get an electrocardiogram (EKG for short). That was a new one for me.
They had me go into a closet to take my shirt off. In the States, you’d get a robe or some type of sheet to cover you. Not here. That was fine, but why make me go into the closet in the first place? And it was really a closet—there were jackets, supplies, two bottles of wine (my kind of doctor!), and other random things.
When it was time for the EKG, they put things on my wrists and ankles that reminded me of big plastic clothespins. Then there was a thick plastic strip with a bunch of electrodes that went across my chest. It was over before I knew it, and the doctor said everything looked good.
At the very end, I had to step on the scale. Here’s a hint—if you’re used to pounds and you’re weighed in kilos, it’s a big change. The number is much lower—a nice perk. And somehow, in the midst of all the bread, cheese, wine, meat, and gelato I was eating, I lost the five pounds I had wanted to lose for the last two (really stressful) years. Instead of the French Paradox, I call it the Hungarian Conundrum.