I went to the doctor yesterday for my usual yearly physical where I’m poked and prodded and made to feel like a cooking ham.
We went through the usual rigormarol of discussing my health.
Do you wheeze?
No.
Do you have chest pains?
Only when I’m panicking.
When are you panicking?
Always.
Does your stomach hurt?
No. Unless I forget to take my Prilosec. Then it burns like Kuwait in 1991.
Do you have rectal polyps?
What? No. I mean, I haven’t looked. I can’t see.
Have you ever bled out of your eyes?
Um . . . no.
Woken up with a strange metal object in your nose?
Huh? Well, the baby shoved a spoon up there once. But I woke up immediately.
Do you experience periods of missing time or repeated moments?
Not that I’m aware of.
Do you experience periods of missing time or repeated moments?
Funny.
Do you exhibit any signs of stigmata or other religious phenomena including, but not limited to, birth marks in the shape of any deity, demagogue or dead pop star?
Not that I’m aware of. Though this freckle sometimes resembles Dion.
Dion isn’t dead.
Oh. Nevermind.
So, we’re gong through the usual discussion of my health and I joke that if I just stop taking heroin I’d be fine.
“You’re not addicted to heroin,” he says matter of factly.
How do you know?
“Heroin addicts aren’t chubby.”
Oh. Turns out I have to lose weight. Not bad, I knew that. He’s not putting me on a rigorous diet or exercise program. He just said to “get off my ass and do something.” I told him that I’m busy and I won’t find the time. “Yes you will,” he said. “You forget your wife is a patient of mine too. I know she’ll make you do it.”
Okay. But I run up the stairs at least ten times a day, I told him.
“Refilling your coffee cup doesn’t count,” he replied.
He did an EKG on me just to check my heart, considering I’m thirty, have been diabetic for 22 years and have a family history. And I’m thirty. He kept pointing that out.
“Hey doc. Why does my elbow hurt all the time?”
“You’re thirty. You expect to last forever?”
He’s also signed me up for a stress test later this month. Crap. If I don’t have a heart condition now, I’ll be dead by the end of the treadmill test. I need to get into shape.
Funny. I’m in such bad shape that I have to get into shape for a test that measures how fit I am.
Pathetic.
But, honestly, I’ve been honing my geekness for several years now. My laziness is at a high end. My skin, from sitting in the basement all day, is nearly translucent and my hearing is now so acute I can actually hear the electron gun that makes the lines on a television.
Am I supposed to give that up for . . . health?
He’s right, of course. My dad died when I was 4. He was 49. That’s only 19 years.
It seems like a long time. But it’s not enough. I have two little girls I need to walk down an aisle around that time.
And I have a lovely wife who is going to retire with me and be all cute and artistic while I complain about how the world has changed.
And I’ll have a dog then. And he’ll need me to be his buddy.
There’s too much to do. So, I guess a little exercise is worth it.
Right. I’m getting to it. Right after I finish this box of Krispie Kremes.
Discuss
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