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My Doctor Visit

 I'm swelling with pride because I have dragged myself to the doctor for a check-up; this is kind of a moral victory for me; it happens once per decade. He asks about my exercise routine--and I answer in an ashamed way. "It's ten minutes per morning on a stationary bike."


(Actually, it's five to seven minutes. I have to get through three songs--and if I choose short songs like the little snippets from Broadway's "& Juliet," then I can be done in approximately 200 seconds.)

The doctor maintains a poker face. "Daily exercise is great. Let's try to get your number to twenty minutes per morning."

I found this doctor through my husband. As usual, Marc was accurate in his description: "I think this guy might be a serial killer." The doctor is extremely meek, like a nerdier version of Michael C. Hall in "Dexter." It would be impossible to demonstrate *less* personality than what the doctor is offering. He wears Seymour Krelborn glasses with thick frames, and he does not speak above a whisper. In his waiting room--oddly, unnervingly--he has chosen to feature a series of Pat Benatar music videos, including "Hit Me (With Your Best Shot)" and "We Belong to the Night."

He asks about my diet, and I claim not to eat a lot of red meat. What I do not confess is that, in my mind, fried chicken is a virtuous selection, because it involves chicken. The doctor makes ominous sounds about cholesterol, and he suggests some changes, and, falsely, I promise to "get right on that!"

Up next on the menu in the near future...a colonoscopy and a shingles vaccine. I like that doctors tend to promise these events, as if saying, "Remember you must die!"

I tip my hat to Ms. Benatar--and I shudder, briefly, as I try to suppress a vision of my "exercise" bike. Till next time.
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