I’ve been blessed with good health. (Knock on wood.) Any physical problems that I’ve had have been the result of poor judgement, a perception of invincibility, clumsiness, or just plain stupidity. That being said, I still visit my doctor periodically for a general wellness exam. I use the word “periodically” loosely because I’ve become a time traveller where intervals seem to move in multi-year Aztecesque cycles.
Bottom line… I’m overdue for an uncomfortable sit-in-your-underpants face-to-face with my doc. The whole experience is awkward. During my last visit my doctor suggested that I am carrying twenty extra pounds for my frame. He then asked if I wanted to know how long I was going to live using his life calculator. (If your doctor ever asks you that question, the only correct answer is “NO!”)
So I’m getting mentally prepared for my “periodic” wellness checkup. It always begins with a fresh-faced nursing school grad doing the exam preflight; blood pressure, temperature, etc. And then the mandatory “safety” questionnaire, which I find ridiculous. Ridiculous because if someone were to feel unsafe it would be BECAUSE of my ugly ogre-like self, not actually me feeling vulnerable.
I’m ready this year. I’m going to act fidgety-uncomfortable when the nurse begins the interrogation.
Nurse [in a soft serious tone]: “Is someone hurting you?”
Me: “WHY? IS SHE HERE?” I’ll say, jumping to my feet and cracking the door to the exam room, peaking out. “DID SHE CALL YOU?”
[That should set the tone for the rest of her questions.]
Nurse: “Do you feel safe at home”
Me: [looking down, shaking my head and wringing my hands]: “No. My home is very dangerous. Pets aren’t even safe.”
Nurse [seemingly surprised]: “Why?”
Me: “My wife is trying to kill me. She uses some kind of hair stuff in the shower that I can only guess is a blend of beef tallow, bacon grease, and of course tea tree oil. I think she paints the shower floor with it.”
Ok, actually that’s real. And I don’t feel safe in the shower. Last week I stepped onto the tile and found myself on the floor in a painfully contorted position that I hadn’t been in since I tested for black belt in Tae Kwan Do. But I understand that beauty comes at a cost – and with a measure of pain – so I’ve learned to dust a layer of Comet cleanser on the floor before entering the shower to give my feet a little extra grip. It works and as a bonus keeps the grout really clean.
I read recently that injury related falls are the leading cause of death in men of my vintage. Not heart attacks. Not cancer. Not ex-wives or jealous husbands. Falls. And I can only assume that female beauty products – and cats – are major contributors to that statistic.
So if women are not intentionally booby trapping their homes as a clever marital exit strategy, how are they not part of the “death” statistic, or at least walking around with a bunch of lumps on their heads and maybe the occasional wrist cast? They must have sticky little chameleon feet or something.
Or maybe… JUST MAYBE… it’s a way they keep us from creeping up on them when they’re in the shower and they just deal with a slimy floor as a dangerously acceptable alternative to being “soaped”.
At any rate, I think the only safe alternative in the near future will be to use a different shower, even if it means going to the YMCA and sharing a community shower room with a bunch of bruised and battered old guys that have simply surrendered.
I’m fairly sure the nurse will get frustrated and give up on the safety questionnaire at that point and mumble something as she exits the room, assuming that I can’t hear because I’m as old as her dad. And who knows, maybe she’ll actually file a report with Social Services. Imagine how that would read.
“Patient in obvious mental distress, complaining of wife attempting to kill him by applying bacon grease to shower floor…”