Today is the day I get my big annual physical — I’m going to spend my morning getting bled and inspected and told that I’m an awful mess who is probably going to die soon. It’ll be fun! If I were a masochist, I’d be paying good money to strip naked and sit in one of those humiliating hospital gowns while my woman doctor tells me all the things that are wrong with me. If I’m really lucky, she’ll be joined by a doctor from the Twin Cities and my horrid shape will also be captured by video cameras.
Except I’m not a masochist and I don’t get off on humiliation, darn it.
I get to do this every year, until I’m dead. Looking on the bright side, maybe it won’t be too many more years.
I’m back. All the tests came back fine, even improved from last year. My inevitable demise has been slightly delayed. Unless, that is, Death is just trying to lull me into a sense of false optimism before springing a big surprise.