Analyze This . . and this . . . and this

OK. I survived the checkup.

List in my journal:

— Muzak makes me feel like I’m late to something big–and it isn’t happening in this waiting area.

–Note to self: Need an IPod.

–Cute teenage boy in cargo shorts with a bloody syringe taped to his jugular, tubes running under his polo shirt.

–Grey-ponytailed hippy dude exuding unfiltered Camels (I adore the smell–still stunned I was able to stop. I don’t quit bad things easily). He’s battling with reception for information and a smile, his prosthetic peg-leg skinny as Ahab’s–grounded by a huge Adidas sneaker.

–Never mind.

–Siberia, anyone?

–White paper gown. Fluorescent everything.

–Diabolical signage.

–Concrete. Steel.

–Insight: compared to this, the Woman’s prison in Raleigh feels like Grandma’s kithchen.

–My diagnosis:
–Low pulse and blood pressure. OK, the pipes and pump work.
–Question: So where do I hold the stress: In my fat? DEEPER?
–Doc made appointments with:

PT: injured rotator cuff, 4 years ago
ObGyn: “Just to rule out . . .”
Gastro: “You might have a bit of . . .”
Radiology: mammogram, routine

–My hypocondriac mother would bliss out.
–I’ll cancel.
–I’m good at that.

The Upshot:

–I’m not worried. I mean it. This is a first.

–Refrigerator quote reads:
‘Life is too short to live it scared.’

–I wrote it.

–P.S. After spending the first 50 years in terror.

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