I apologize for the fact that I’m late in delivering this new post. That is, if anyone even noticed that I’m a few days past my deadline. Five to be exact, if you happen to mark your calendar. Which I highly doubt. But that’s okay. I don’t mind my usual timeliness being taken for granted.
In case you’re interested, I do have a good excuse. No, it’s not the dog ate my homework, or in this case, my essay. It’s better than that.
One week ago I had an encounter with an orthopedic surgeon. And while I was under, and totally helpless, he performed a total replacement of my left shoulder.
Yesterday was the Ides of March, and that can only mean one thing. It’s time for the annual rundown of what Big Pharma has been up to during this past year.
And the drug companies did not disappoint. New treatments for everything from dry eye to chronic constipation have emerged. And once again, while the rest of us were fast asleep, with or without chemical assistance, former Scrabble players with a penchant for high-scoring letters, stayed up all night and created a roster of new, incredibly dumb names.
It has been said, by Ben Franklin, I think, that the only things in life that are certain are death and taxes. I’ve taken the liberty of adding a third item to the traditional twosome, the annual physical exam. A call from my doctor’s office reminding me that another year has gone by is now among the inevitable. And at this stage of life it would be foolish to ignore the request to make an appointment. Especially since I’m fiercely dedicated to postponing Certainty #1 for as long as possible.
I am about to brag. If you don’t want to listen to me bragging, you have my permission to stop reading right now. I generally hate it when people brag, so I wouldn’t blame you in the least. Bragging is obnoxious. If it isn’t one of the seven deadly sins, it should be. I much prefer self-deprecation.
But there are those exceptional occasions when a little bragging is warranted, even called for. And, in the first half of my eighth decade, I have arrived at one of those occasions, so here goes. In spite of a declining metabolism that may have reached its nadir years ago, I have achieved weight loss!
I won’t relate the actual number of pounds, but considering my starting point, the amount is not insignificant. And yes, I stand before you, in my slim jeans pulled from the back of the closet, very proud of myself!
This blog will be short and sweet because I have to run off to a doctor’s appointment. I don’t remember if it is the dermatologist or the opthamologist. I’ll have to consult my diary so I don’t wind up waiting an hour in the wrong office.
I also have to check my wallet to make sure I replaced my insurance card after the last doctor’s visit, and that I have cash, check, or credit card for the co-pay.
Oh, and I’d better attend to the status of my underwear just in case today’s appointment turns out to be with the gynocologist.
I have mixed feelings about formal occasions. On one hand, it’s an opportunity to release my inner child and play dress-up. On the other hand, my outer “mature” adult cringes as it contemplates the possible necessity of Spanx or other constricting undergarments. Even the idea of panty hose makes me shudder.
So when the invitation came to attend a charity ball as the guest of the honoree, my inclination was to say no, thank you very much for asking, and send a donation. My life would be no less rich for having missed one more mass-produced meal and some boring speeches. And I could lounge comfortably at home in my finest Russell athletic wear, sans undergarments if I so chose.
But there was a personal connection to the guest of honor, so we accepted. Besides, the venue was enticing. The affair was to be held on the USS Intrepid, the former WW II air craft carrier now a sea, air and space museum, located on Manhattan’s west side. If not entertaining, the evening at least held the prospect of being educational.
I have a healthy relationship with food. I’m neither too thin nor too fat. I eat only when I’m hungry and try not to snack between meals. I believe I am what I eat. I eat this and not that. I heed the media medics. The wrong foods can cause brain shrinkage and heaven knows I need every cell I can hang on to. I’m a believer. I drank the Kool-Aid. Oops! I mean the green tea.
I spend an inordinate amount of time in the supermarket reading labels. I’ve even purchased a pair of extra-strong reading glasses so I can see the fine print. Gone are the days when I would speed-shop through a super store and in less than an hour, purchase a week’s worth of groceries for a family of four. Five, if you include the dog.
I sometimes think about the damage my reckless shopping habits might have caused my young family. In retrospect, I can’t help but wonder if my son might have gotten into Harvard had I not let him eat all those Spaghetti-Os. But no point looking back.
I had an experience recently, which was an eye-opener. Or I should say mouth-opener because it concerned a visit to the dentist.
While dental visits are not on my list of top ten earthly delights, it was the only way I could think of to get a chronically loose crown reaffixed. All I had at my disposal was Elmer’s Glue, which is for external use only. And I make it a policy never to tamper with warning labels.
“Well,” Dr. Painless said, “I don’t know how long we can keep doing this. You really ought to consider an implant. Or two. He said this as casually as if he was suggesting I purchase a scoop of ice cream, or two, and not something that was going to require root canal. “And by the way,” he added, “when was the last time you had a full set of X-rays?”