I just finished having the annual physical, which I have once every two years or so, ‘cos they’re fucking depressing and suck the juice right outta ya! Have to do all the routine tests, blood, mammogram, heart rate, etc…Well, the breathing/heart rate thingy is the only hiccup, and I’m not being funny, but as I said to the nurse, “Look love, I’m 50, smoke like Dean Martin and Betty Davis’ love child, and love caffeine 'cos it's the only Colombian I'm allowed these days, and there's the extra weight, not a whole lot, but enough to cause a few ripples in the bath water, and carry a good bass line if I’m standing close enough to large speakers”…get my meaning?
So she responds, very professional like, “Oh not to worry, you’ll be monitored closely and it’s entirely safe.”
“No!” Doctor’s assistant, mutual, medical co-conspirator type person…
”You’re not quite getting my meaning here. I’m not worried about collapsing or anything, I’m more concerned with the Richter scale effect on Mexico and/or Japan, what with tsunamis and earthquakes and the like, once I start this running in place and bouncing 'round like Tigger on speed palaver that makes up part of the physical…”
Useless, I tell ya! Absolutely useless! That little comment right there went right over her head! I swear I saw and heard flies buzzing ’round her head and thought I could just about hear our hearts beating and blood circulating for how quiet it went in the examination room. I’m surprised she didn’t call in the “nice people” with the hug me jackets and extra long sleeves with shiny buckles!
She manages a forced smile and uncomfortable chuckle eventually, and we continue with the measuring and weighing and waiting for Dr. Doom to show up, and then continue with the intrusive poking and prodding of various bodily orifices, and onto the most dreaded part of the whole degrading and depressing procedure really…the concerned Dr.’s speech, which goes like this, I swear I could just tape him onto a reel to reel and save us both the time and trouble…
Doctor: “Are you still smoking?”
Me: “Yes, regularly and at every waking moment.”
Doctor: “Are you planning on quitting?”
Me: “Yes, when they pry that last smoke outta my fingers at the morgue.”
Doctor: “You realize the dangers, don’t you? And what with your past history…blah blah blah etc. etc. etc...”
Me: (to myself) “Gee, I wonder if this guy really enjoys his job? What’s he like in his private life? Does he have a family? Does his family find him as boring as I do I wonder? Fuck, I could really do with a smoke right about now!”
Doctor: “…and statistics show…blah blah blah…women your age…blah blah blah…something something something...”
Me: “Yes, I understand. Please continue…”
Well, I didn’t actually say that. What I did say was this, "Look Doc, I’ve survived drug addiction, homelessness, three cancer thingies, and my childhood. Smoking is the least of my worries at this point! I love smoking! There I said it! I don’t drink, but maybe once every three months, those bitch beers and am such a softy, I’m done after two or three of those. I don’t do meds, though the general consensus seems to be that I should, and have a Pez dispenser for the sole purpose of making it fun to dope myself up the wazoo! I’m so boring and sedate these days, I am seriously considering signing up with the Mormons, but can’t stand the dresses, ponytails, and horse covered wagons. My only vices are social networking, which I’m withdrawing from, and smoking. I don’t even smoke weed ‘cos I’m already at a very comfortable level of paranoia and can’t afford the munchies and/or the weight gain!" Insert breath here…
Well, that brought our conversation to a close, and all the while I was thinking, "Gee, thanks, Dr. Doom! Maybe if you dressed up as a tranny, a la Dr. Frank N. Furter a la Rocky Horror Picture Show, it woulda been more entertaining and you woulda held my attention." As it is, all I really felt like saying was "Ciao, Dr. Doom, keep yer finger nails and hands as clean and sterile as yer sense of humor." The usual goodbyes were made with "Get those last follow up tests done and if there’s anything, we’ll call you."
And that was how that went down, and now I’m seriously pissed off ‘cos he’s got me thinking about quitting again, and what with smoking in public these days, (it’s almost akin to shooting heroin in a room full of pre-schoolers), unless you live in Liverpool, Manchester, or the East End.
I guess I should make the effort, so I’ll try again with buying some skins, (rolling paper), and some loose tobacco. Have already done patches, gum, and the rest, and it wasn’t happening. The only thing that stops me from going to a hypnotist is what I may start blabbering about while feeling very comfy and relaxed. I know what I’m like, and I’d probably start rattling away all my account and pin number details, as well as a full description and play by play of any and all illegal activities I’ve been a party to.
If I don’t end up reducing my nicotine intake in a very controlled manner, I just know I’m gonna end up serving a life sentence for doing bodily harm and injury to somebody out there. I’ll end up putting several foot and head sized holes in the walls throughout the house, and most likely throw large pieces of furniture out of my sixth-floor window onto the conks of innocent pedestrians below…
And to top it all off, that bastard Doctor probably won’t even call to tell me what a swell time he had poking about my private bits, and if he does, it’ll just be to say we should remain friends!