Every summer I go to the doctor’s office for an annual exam. I sit in his office and he asks me, “Tony, how are you feeling?”

Assuming that it was a good year overall, I answer, “I’m feeling fine.”

But that’s not the end of my appointment. The doctor doesn’t take my word for it and send me home. Instead, he begins a process of prodding and poking to see whether or not I am as fine as I say that I feel.

Of all of the things that my doctor does, the thing that I despise the most is the stress test. He attaches electronic probes all over my body. Then he sticks me on a treadmill. Next, he makes the treadmill go faster and faster up an incline because what he wants to know is the real condition of my heart.

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