Going to Health in a Hand Basket
When I returned home to Appomattox after my latest stint in the Asian Pacific, my thoughts immediately turned to my upcoming new job as linguist liaison in Iraq. Note that the title is indeed linguist liaison, not linguist/liaison, linguist-liaison, or simply linguist. The latter three would imply that I actually have some linguistic skills, which I clearly don’t. I do not sprecken der Araby, or, as they say in Mexico, c’est l’vie.
I am working on it with my trusty Rosetta Stone software, but I have even been neglecting that as of late. It has been an extremely busy time here on the farm, and after nearly four months away, there is lots of TiVo to go through. Not only that, it is almost time for kickoff.
Anyway, one of the pieces of correspondence awaiting me upon my return was the results of the fitness-for-deployment physical I had undergone in preparation for my new assignment. The good news was that I a) wasn’t going to die or b) should have been dead 2 years ago, but there was concern over my cholesterol level. I had always taken some pride in the rarity of my 4-digit cholesterol counts, but imagine my surprise when it was suggested that I may want to consider lowering them before my heart tears a whole through my chest and makes a run for it.
I dislike having a “healthy lifestyle” dictated to me. After all, if the good Lord didn’t want us to eat lard, why did he make pigs so fat? Why, on the second day, did he create the Twinkie as a tasty treat to compliment the bologna sandwich and carrot sticks he had for lunch on the first day in between creating the heavens and the earth? What about the people who manufacture those wire baskets for deep-fat fryers? I didn’t want to be responsible for putting them out of work.
So, you see, it wasn’t about me. It was about God and jobs. If I was anymore patriotic, I would be wearing a flag lapel pin on my lobster bib.
But nooooooo. Gotta lower them numbers, gotta get healthy, don’t want those arteries getting clogged up like the shower drain of that Oak Ridge Boy guy with the hair down to the floor and the Father Time beard, can’t go keeling over from a heart attack or stroking out and becoming the World’s Largest Cucumber.
Not that it was all bad. While beer has been put on the no-no list, red wine is said to actually be beneficial, though I must complain that the three bottles of Mogan David gave me a heck of a hangover until someone mentioned that dirtiest of dirty words: Moderation. I’ve always hated moderation as it usually means just enough until you decide you really want more but can’t. If you can’t indulge in something to an unhealthy degree, the why do it in the first place?
Instead, I am now taking a cholesterol-lowering drug and waiting in fear for the side effects to kick in and wondering when one leg is going to start getting shorter than the other. I am eating oatcakes that make hardtack taste like Suzy-Q’s, topping them with a butter-like substance that actually has less dairy product than a Buick.
I stroll through the frozen food section at the supermarket gazing longingly at the rows of Haagen-Dazs, Edy’s, and Blue Bunny. Even that nasty natural vanilla stuff with the unearthly white color and the dirt specks is starting to look good.
The question for me is, how long will this have to go on? 6 months? A year? Forever? Or maybe just long enough to get the numbers down to socially acceptable levels and show everyone that I can be healthy if I want to?
Because that is what it comes down to. Somewhere, at some point in time, someone decided that this is what the numbers would be and that everybody better toe the line and do it or we would all die horrible deaths before we turn 150. Who wants to live that long? Do they realize how much I would have to contribute to my 401K to make it last that long?
I am fully aware that my premature demise would put a crimp in the longevity curve, but massive heart attacks are generally quick and fatal, which means I wouldn’t be a burden on the medical and insurance industries any longer than what would be convenient for them. Where’s the harm?
I mean, if the world didn’t have bad examples, how would we know from good ones? That was the sacrifice I was willing to make.
You’re welcome.
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