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Much to his dismay, I have been seeing my doctor more often recently. On my last visit, he had the nerve to ask me if I had been watching my weight.
"Yeah," I said, "I've been watching it go up!" Weight gain was a side effect of one of the medications he had prescribed. The label on my prescription bottle says, "Side effects may include, but are not limited to: death, bleeding eyeballs, diarrhea or water retention (whichever comes first), ingrown toenails, growth of unexpected appendages, allergies to all the foods you like, scraped knees, excessive foot tapping, inability to stay awake during long meetings, increased sensitivity to rap music, poor dental hygiene, irrational phobias, trouble with your in-laws, wedgies, involuntary spitting, recollections of past lives, existential angst, and in your case, weight gain. Do not use this medication if you intend to operate anything heavier than a fork." I don't feel guilty complaining about medical problems because doing so is a constitutionally provided right for all of those over age forty. If you are over sixty, it is no longer just your right; it is your duty. I took it up on the day of my fortieth birthday, but I have always tried to keep it interesting. Eventually I plan to have a series of puppet shows about my health problems. In preparation, I have begun cataloguing the phases of going old, along with the related symptoms. They are listed below. Keep in mind that these are only generalizations and may only apply to me. Your actual experiences may be worse. Phase 1: · Going jogging results in a five-pound weight gain. · You make pop culture references and discover that the things you are talking about are no longer part of pop culture. You also discover that there is no longer a "Der" before Wienerschnitzel, and some of the people around you weren't even alive when the first Star Wars movie came out. · When people tell you that you're still young, you suspect them of trickery. Phase 2: · You feel like you partied all night when, in actuality, all you did was watch TV and go to bed at eight. · When you go to the doctor, dentist, or optometrist, they are no longer able to help you with your problems. They used to fix them. Now all they do is say, "Sorry! That's what happens when you get old." · Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, you stop caring about what's cool. The next day, you start making fun of it. Phase 3: · Every time you wake up, you discover a new wrinkle, crack, line, spot, or blotch. You figure out that if you never sleep, then maybe they won't appear. It takes so much effort to figure this out that you decide to take a nap. · Words that previously had no meaning to you now mean something -- words like Metamucil. · In the middle of the night, your body parts get together and draw straws to determine which one is going to hurt the next day. Defying the odds, several of them get the short straw. Phase 4 (Please note that the elements of Phase 4 are not things that have actually happened to me yet, but by extrapolating from current trends, I have concluded that they probably will happen to all of us): · Time goes so fast that the rest of your life takes place in what feels like approximately an hour and a half. · You find that acting stupid is a great way to mess with young people. · You gain ten pounds that will not go away regardless of what you do. Two pounds of this is ear hair. "Doc," I said as I left the office, "I'll be back." He didn't think I caught it, but I saw him roll his eyes. Poor guy. He doesn't know what he's in for. |
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