Woody Allen Lives...
I have been on my salmon and salad diet again since Sunday. Back down to 189 pounds. Will aim to stick to it religiously until I am back in the low 180s. Will then try to drift down over the Summer to the 170s for an attempt at racing a fast marathon in the late Fall and a new personal best.
As a man of a certain age I have begun developing wild tendencies towards hyprochondria. My coughing, wheezing and sputtering of the past ten days, my horror at sticking my arm in one of those blood pressure machines in a pharmacy a few weeks ago and getting a read-out of 135 over 95, and this little spot of flaking skin on my forehead that won't go away had me pretty convinced that I had an advanced case of some disease, and given my luck and recent behavior, probably a brain tumour or lung or skin cancer...
Good old Dr. Boris. Those blood pressure machines you find in drug stores? They are designed with eighty year old women in mind. Frail eighty year old women. Not strapping middle-aged Vikings. That would explain why I can barely fit my forearm through the cuff. My blood pressure is only 95 over 66. Which is done a bit from last year's check-up of 104 over 66. And my resting heart rate is 46, and as low as 38 or 39 some mornings when I lie in bed.
The wheezing and sounding like a broken air-conditioner in a cheap motel is my asthma flaring up at the heighth of allergy season. Got a mittful of new inhalers, but to be on the safe side, Boris is sending me for a lung function test. Aand I'm in good company, apparently there is some bizarre statistic like 80% of Olympic athletes have some degree of exercise induced asthma.
As for the flaking bit of my hide, Boris doesn't think it is anything, but he's sending me to somebody. Worst case scenario it is a tiny little basal skin cancer bit that will scrape right off.
Why all the paranoia you ask...
Well, this is the year my father had his first heart attack, relative to our ages. He was 46 at the time, and in a few months I too will be 46. Christ, where did my life go? And much as I know that my father and I lead very different lifestyles, the apple still doen't fall that far from the tree. But my heart and blood pressure and blood chemistry are all good. Good cholesterol good, bad cholesterol hardly on the chart. And the amount of running I am doing on a regular basis kind of precludes me developing heart disease over night, but you can't shake that nagging feeling that causes you to look over your shoulder in the middle of the night.
We're all dying, so you better hurry up and start living.
Time is precious, waste it carefully...
As a man of a certain age I have begun developing wild tendencies towards hyprochondria. My coughing, wheezing and sputtering of the past ten days, my horror at sticking my arm in one of those blood pressure machines in a pharmacy a few weeks ago and getting a read-out of 135 over 95, and this little spot of flaking skin on my forehead that won't go away had me pretty convinced that I had an advanced case of some disease, and given my luck and recent behavior, probably a brain tumour or lung or skin cancer...
Good old Dr. Boris. Those blood pressure machines you find in drug stores? They are designed with eighty year old women in mind. Frail eighty year old women. Not strapping middle-aged Vikings. That would explain why I can barely fit my forearm through the cuff. My blood pressure is only 95 over 66. Which is done a bit from last year's check-up of 104 over 66. And my resting heart rate is 46, and as low as 38 or 39 some mornings when I lie in bed.
The wheezing and sounding like a broken air-conditioner in a cheap motel is my asthma flaring up at the heighth of allergy season. Got a mittful of new inhalers, but to be on the safe side, Boris is sending me for a lung function test. Aand I'm in good company, apparently there is some bizarre statistic like 80% of Olympic athletes have some degree of exercise induced asthma.
As for the flaking bit of my hide, Boris doesn't think it is anything, but he's sending me to somebody. Worst case scenario it is a tiny little basal skin cancer bit that will scrape right off.
Why all the paranoia you ask...
Well, this is the year my father had his first heart attack, relative to our ages. He was 46 at the time, and in a few months I too will be 46. Christ, where did my life go? And much as I know that my father and I lead very different lifestyles, the apple still doen't fall that far from the tree. But my heart and blood pressure and blood chemistry are all good. Good cholesterol good, bad cholesterol hardly on the chart. And the amount of running I am doing on a regular basis kind of precludes me developing heart disease over night, but you can't shake that nagging feeling that causes you to look over your shoulder in the middle of the night.
We're all dying, so you better hurry up and start living.
Time is precious, waste it carefully...
posted by Vince Hemingson at 12:06 PM
1 Comments:
Amen.
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