An annual physical can be fraught with all manner of psychological baggage for a soon-to-be-39-year-old with a rather cancer-y past. As I mentioned to the doctor today, "I keep waiting for the next tumor to show up." Which is true, though it makes me sound even more neurotic than I already am. Some witty soul once told me that on a long enough timeline, we all get cancer. That may have been my oncologist, now that I think about it but, source aside, it's a piece of trivia that I'd have happily lived out my days not knowing.
Given my history, I think most people would forgive me if I was a touch over-the-top about my personal health and yet I just washed down day-old lo mein with a pint of Coke. I've also joined a gym and intend to drop at least 10 pound before I attempt to make a public appearance in a swimsuit. My sister-in-law, on the other hand, has recently been diagnosed with a mental illness called Being 50. It manifests as an inability to tell anyone your real age, a compulsion to work out obsessively and a tendency for one's hair to repeatedly change color, seemingly overnight. I quite like my sister-in-law but I have tremendous impatience for people who don't age gracefully. The alternative course is by far the more unpleasant.
The point that I'm gradually arriving at is this: somewhere between Kenny--my 250 lb., chain-smoking friend who's never consumed anything that wasn't deep fried, alcoholic and/or dunked in Buffalo sauce--and Jack Lalane--who lived by the mantras "if man made it, don't eat it", and "if it tastes good, spit it out"--there must be a happy middle ground. I'll let you know if I happen upon it whilst washing down my Cheerios with a large Turbo with cream from The Dunk.
Ed. Note: I glance up at the TV and it's the episode of The Family Guy called "Fat Guy Strangler"; the universe is trying to tell me something.
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