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Not to worry, mate, the fact that you've gone already to the GP makes it much better than if you had not got yourself checked at all.
As for me, I'm 179 centimetres tall and weigh 70 kilos, or 154 lb over 5'10" in the empire of inches and pounds and freedom fries (I recently found out I'm 2 centimetres taller than I thought I was, which makes me the one guy in male history to say I'm shorter than I really am). I do like to say my blood pressure is 109 over 69 though, much to my doctors' chagrin, as they insist on rounding the damn thing up to 110/70 because we can't have nice things, can we?
I have to admit I've always liked the rituals of exercising, which has been helped me a lot once I hit my 40s. The clanking iron, the reps on the benching press, the loud stomps on the treadmill booming all over the gym to drown out my methane emissions to the atmosphere - a small damage to the ozone layer, a huge byproduct of my whey protein intake. It got worse after my brief stint in Korea where I found myself surrounded by sharp lines, clean skin, and people who seem to have been designed by Photoshop's gentlest hand. I shed a few kilos I didn't really need to lose and decided to work on my muscles, so now I look like a malnourished lumberjack who clearly doesn't have the necessary body fat to survive in the wilderness for more than a couple of minutes unassisted, should I ever be forced to fight the elements.
My one problem? Recently, my bloodwork came back with the kind of numbers you'd brag about in locker rooms: testosterone nearly double the upper range for my age bracket. Why? No idea. I can't even brag I did it for the plot: no syringes, no secret powders, no nothing. Just me, my dumbbells, and whatever trick my biology is playing on me this decade.
My wife fears it's cancer. I dread it's something more terrifying: it might be God's way of telling me I'm about to lose my mane after impersonating Jesus for so long 
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