Every once in a while, even a big city like Los Angeles can feel like a small town, the kind of place where everybody knows your business. This is especially true when my wife insists I go to the doctor.

Frankly, it’s nobody’s business why I’ve missed four annual physicals in a row. Maybe there’s been nothing to complain about, although I can’t say this out loud. The last time I did my wife laughed and pulled a stomach muscle.

(FOR THE RECORD: I was busy with other things.)

My wife insisted on joining me in the exam room. This merely wasted the doctor’s time because I had to constantly remind my wife that giggling when I took my clothes off was reserved for private time; also, if I wanted the doctor to know about…certain things…I would have told him.

She called my attitude a “guy thing,” and immediately blurted out irrelevant information such as how I huff and puff when climbing the stairs at home.

The doctor seemed to think that was worth typing into his computer, which is totally ridiculous. Huffing and puffing is a normal part of aging. (FOR THE RECORD: You can find that on the internet, if you look long enough.)

I also thought the doctor’s insistence that something is wrong when shortness of breath occurs “after climbing the first step” somewhat disingenuous. What do doctors know about stairs? Not as much as my contractor, I’ll bet. He built the ones in my house. And he says there’s nothing wrong with them.

The exchange was getting heated when my wife suggested we take the disagreement outside, because that’s where his medical degree was hanging.

You may not know this, but anyone with a medical degree can legally prescribe walking every day. At least that’s what the AMA told me.

They can also prescribe a pedometer. I don’t believe that’s correct, but the AMA told me to stop calling.

If you’re not familiar with pedometers, let me explain about this little bit of “spy wear.”

And, no, I’m not being funny.

You enter your stride length, which you have to figure out by taking 10 steps, measuring how far you’ve walked, and dividing by 10. Don’t try calling up the manufacturer and telling them this is a stupid operation fraught with potential errors. They are not nearly as polite as the AMA.

The pedometer counts your steps and tells the whole world how many miles you’ve walked and how many calories you’ve burned.

Apparently, the second number is there so, in case of an emergency, an EMT can replace those calories in a hurry. I’m sure I can find data on the internet about how many people die of calorie deficiency.

If I look long enough.

Nonetheless, six weeks ago, promptly at 7AM, I started my new walking routine. I was quite surprised.

I had no idea Los Angeles mornings had a 7AM.

After four weeks I was proud to discover my huffing and puffing didn’t begin until I was at least half way up to the second step. The doctor was less impressed and suggested I try walking further than to the bottom of the driveway and back.

I promptly named my pedometer Benedict Arnold.

Now I leave the house at 7AM, return an hour later and proudly show my wife the pedometer. Two miles it says.

And I changed the pedometer’s name to Florence Nightingale.

Not only doesn’t it mention that I only walk 15 minutes to the nearest Starbucks, it says nothing about the coffee and bagels I have to stave off calorie deficiency.

And, above all, it doesn’t mention my being the only walker in the neighborhood with a six-foot, five-inch stride.