I do not mind saying that my body is far from perfect. Very few bodies are, though some come close. However, I am utterly devoted to keeping my physical form as firm and flourishing as my intellectual faculties. You know I am particular about what I eat and my medicine cabinet is always well stocked with vitamins (choose your own pronunciation). Even though we’re all still waiting for spring to actually show up, I face the slight nip in the air every day to take my morning constitutional. Christopher has shown me his preferred workout, and although the drills are intense, my flexibility continues to improve, and I think the pink blush the exertion brings to my cheeks makes me look quite vivacious.
There are some health concerns, though, that we individuals cannot manage on our own. For those, we need to consult what are commonly known as “professionals.” I use the term extremely delicately. Unfortunately there are quite a few bunco artists polluting many of our nation’s doctors’ offices. For example, I cannot respect a man who suggests expectorating phlegm as a remedy, despite any number of certificates decorating the walls of his surgery. So take care, readers: I caution all of you to be sure of to whom you are trusting yourself with.
But don’t go crazy. We do need those who are truly experts. Please understand that I am not encouraging anyone to perform their own dental work. I have seen this done and it’s horrifying. I know some suffer from odontophobia, but it is quite important to get one’s dental groove on at least once every six months.
However, while I never hesitate to welcome a qualified man into my mouth (providing that he’s gloved up, of course), I do confess to feeling just a tiny bit anxious about visiting the eye doctor. Now before you start making assumptions about age-related macular degeneration, I can testify that my nerves have nothing to do with refusing to accept that I am getting older. I am getting older, but you know what, so are you so shut up anyway. I do sometimes wear spectacles and if I were ever to be asked to wear bifocals, I’d take it like a man. I don’t like going to get my eyes examined simply because of the close proximity of the doctor to my person. I am usually suspect when I feel a stranger’s breath on my face (excluding that wonderful evening in Paris) so I don’t know why it should be any different just because he’s wearing a white tabard. I always seem to get the one whose wife leaves him dissatisfied, and the room ends up being so thick with sexual tension that I’ve no doubt my ocular accuracy is compromised. This is why I never go to the same optometrist twice—there’s something about sharing such intimacy, and being expected to pay for it, and then hearing nothing from him again until I receive a brief postcard a year later, saying it’d be lovely to see me.
I bring this up only because said epistle arrived last week. I had Christopher ring up our village’s newest specialist (after instructing him to spend a few hours researching the man’s background—and I was quite impressed by his Facebook photo). I have also faxed over my curriculum vitae, a photo, and a few notable newspaper clippings. At least this way, he and I will have some sort of relationship before he gets all up in my face next month. And this one is single as well.
We all must take advantage of both our internal and external resources to keep our bodies well. Those who don’t often get quite poorly, some die and others, well, they do okay so perhaps it doesn’t matter. Actually, whatever. It’s your life if you’re happy pissing it away.