Yesterday I visited my Primary Care Physician for reasons I won’t go into because even though I regularly spill my figurative innards on this public forum so you can either read about them or move on to something mORe SutED 2 uR intRests, I don’t actually know you people. In fact, I don’t believe a word you write.
For all I know, Ed_Kaz might be a 30-something red-headed woman named Clarissa or Courtney; prairiecowboy is really a New York hipster sitting in a trendy coffee-and-wine bar making stuff up and posting farm pictures crabbed off of google; and Bad_Dogma is a bible-thumping, football-watching insurance salesman from Sheboygan. Wait, I actually do know him. At least I think I do.
That’s why I won’t tell you about my doctor visit, except for the parts I’m going to tell you about. First I want to brag about my blood pressure: 100 over 60. Nurses always get excited about my blood pressure. And my resting pulse rate was 58. “I can tell you exercise!” she said.
Shut up, I haven’t published anything in a while and I need to be proud of something, ok?
When the doc came in I dealt with the health issue at hand and then whined about my fatigue. “I’m just tired all the time,” I sniveled. “Like I just want to lie down under my desk and take a nap.”
She asked me some probing questions about my lifestyle—two probing questions at least—and concluded that I should sleep more.
Now I ask you, what kind of cockamamie advice is that for a doctor to give a patient in need?
I weakly suggested that perhaps I suffer from anemia. I couldn’t come right out and ask for uppers, could I? She didn’t offer me any either.
Today the nurse left a chirpy message on my answering machine: my blood work came back a-ok. I don’t even get any maximum he-man strength iron pills for my trouble. Instead of getting up for a morning doctor appointment yesterday, I should’ve stayed in bed.
You may be looking at the time stamp on this post and wondering, as my doctor did, why I’m still up if I’m so tired. Don’t ask stupid questions! Who can go to bed when there are blogs to read, blogs to write, endless sources of news reports over which to obsess, an episode of Scrubs that I recorded, and a novel I’m in the middle of, about a missionary who is not what he appears to be. Much like you all.
Then there’s this grocery store in Manhattan that advertised ham–for Chanukah. Another imposter. Anyone who claims to live in New York City and doesn’t know that Jews only eat pork if it’s been disguised as something else, you know, like bacon, is obviously lying.