Today was my annual physical exam at the GP's. I gave Doc Hartig a hard time because I'm sick of the same lame decor--the cute store-bought Norman Rockwell prints of frightened kids holding stuffed animals up for examination to an indulgent country quack, the same Kathy cartoons taped to the walls--and thought he should ask one of those cable design shows in to re-do his office. He replied that he could always give me my first digital rectal exam before I turned 40 if I became a less pleasant patient to deal with, and suddenly the decor was not so bad at all.
I gained 10 pounds this year, but all of it in the arms and shoulders, so I'm not complaining. The Doc asked me if I was in Jose Canseco's book, hardee-har har. Then he cupped my bits and measured my moles and had some new teenager give me a 3rd-world travel shot. Then she took my blood and gave me an EKG before the Doc came back and hit my knees with the little mallet, and nothing happened with the left leg and he got very concerned and hit it five times and still nothing and then he said "Oh, I'm hitting it in the wrong spot" and he hit it again and there was a solid involuntary twinge.
35 and not yet falling apart.
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