I had my biannual physical yesterday. No, this won't be an organ recital, there are no details to divulge. As opposed to the company-sponored physicals that my Dad used to undergo in the 60s, which involved enemas, barium milkshakes, scopings and proddings, my physical seemed mostly like a conversation with inappropriate touching.
A certain portion of the exam consisted of the doc exchanging information with a PC workstation in the exam room, entering and expanding on my responses to a questionnaire they had given me when I checked in. Halfway through completing it I had noticed that it was for "Women ages 50 - 60", but had finished it anyway, demurring on the question of the date of my last period. Even if I could remember, no way would I tell them. I guess the computer-consultation is no different than the 2" thick paper file the doc used to bring in to the exams, and an "expert-systems" approach will lead more quickly to focused diagnosis. Still, when I asked at some point how that day's blood pressure reading compared to previous ones, the doc clicked on the screen and said, "I dunno. They didn't enter it on your last visit." THAT they could have culled from my paper file for sure. I wonder if it's still around.
The worst part of these things for me is when they draw blood. I get lightheaded, and have passed out on occasion. It's not the pain, of course, or the actual loss of blood, but the idea, I think, of breaching my circulatory system. "This will be easy," they say, "you've got great veins." Which is the most effusive anatomical compliment I've had since, I guess, the last time someone wanted to bleed me. They tape cotton over the wound when they're done, and say to leave it on for 20 minutes. I remove it only when I have to shower that evening, and even then expect the worst.
Invent a memory of me and post it in the comments. It can be anything you want, so long as it's something that's never happened. Then post this in your journal so that people can invent memories for you.
We stole a summer evening from the cellar where July is kept last night. If we're caught, as Christopher believes we will be (see his comment to yesterday's post), the penalty will be treble damages next winter. It was midday warm, over 80 degrees, when we left the house at 5:30 to walk to Mona's (above). We had a drink and delightful appetizers there - ahi tuna seviche for me, an antipasto of carmelized onions, goat cheese, tapenade and peppers for my spouse, an arugula salad to share. A Mariners game lurched into the tenth inning on the silent TV above the bar, and I snuck looks at it (The Mariners this season are like a traffic accident you can't quit looking at) while she nudged herself back and forth across a line that divided liking and not liking so much Underworld by Don Delillo. The book is 800 pages, which seems like it should have been bleeding meat in the shark tank of a good editor, and she, a fast reader, is having trouble making it to the end. I'm supposed to read it next, but I'm a painfully slow reader, and I'll splatter myself on it like a motorcycle-jumper on a 2-cycle scooter trying to leap a line of city buses. To my credit, I was sufficiently engaged in this conversation that I missed the homer that won the game for Seattle.
We had carried jackets, being veterans of Seattle's precipitous evening temperature drops, but when we left Mona's, it was almost as warm as when we had entered. We decided to meander the 3 or 4 blocks down to Greenlake. Greenlake is a city park with 3-mile paved path that circumambulates the lake. My visits to the lake are usually for the purpose of running around it, and I usually dislike walking along the busy path, with its complicated mix of skaters, bikers, runners and walkers. Last night, however, the entire city seemed relaxed and full of weather-induced well-being, and walking along the path and perimeter of the lake was very pleasant. We stopped often to regard details that we have passed a few thousand times in the hyperventilated tunnel-vision of an evening's desperate run: a large man with probably the tiniest dog he could have possibly been with; newly hatched ducklings paddling along the shore, the sunset glistening through their fuzz, now and again lunging upward to capture a bug from the shore-hugging swarms; and a skater on the path who seemed to be a refugee from the easter parade, or a Jack Finney time-travel book.
Perils of Caffeine in the Evening
