I'm getting a physical exam tomorrow—first one since 2010.
Yeah, big mystery why I’ve put if off for four years, right? Since turning fifty, I’ve been nothing short of pathological in formulating solid excuses for not walking the two blocks for a checkup:
a) I have to lose some weight first. The scales are out in a common area of the doctor's office, like between the paper cutter and master sharps bin. Everyone in the vicinity can hear your weight barked out by the nurse, so this time I'm giving her two choices—she either weighs me naked like I'm accustomed to, or she steps on the scales for some reciprocal humiliation in my best Don Pardo voice.
Here’s another idea for the nice folks at the clinic: how about we meet in the lunchroom around noon with a karaoke mic and the doctor can announce that I have the BMI of nacho cheese lasagna?
b) I know women’s exams are more invasive than men’s, but I’m still a quivering wimpster when it comes to the hidden finger wag. I’m always worried that I’ll do something involuntary, like giggle or tilt my head.
c) Since I’m of an age, I’m not highly delighted about receiving input from this fella:
Does the gloved hand seems hostile to you? It mocks me.
It could be worse, though. I've heard that the older models were made of wood and powered by gerbils.
Seriously, I need to stop whining about some temporary discomfort and just be glad I've got the means and access to quality preventative health care.
How long is that thing, anyway? Please tell me that pressure gauge or whatever it is, pulls over before entering the express lanes.
It’s time to be an adult—an older adult in fact; no more procrastinating, no more lame excuses. The asstronauts are sipping Tang, pre-flighting for their Journey to the Center of the Land of the Lost.
Please bring them home safely.