Chapter 2: The Sauce

I recently acquired health insurance, but since I had previously been maintaining my “health” through the socialist Shangri-La known as the UMKC Student Health Clinic, I had to find an actual doctor.  So, my friend recommended hers, a man we’ll call “Dr. Lob.”  She did not tell me that Dr. Lob specializes in geriatrics.  The office is in a time warp.  They don’t accept credit cards.  The only magazine in the waiting room is AARP.  The stench of looming death (which, by the way, is like two parts foot powder and one part Listerine with a hint of Metamucil) is inescapable.  As I filled out my new patient forms, I sat mere inches away from actual old people.  But not just regular old people. Sick old people clutching wadded up tissues, many of whom were probably wearing adult diapers and peeing in them just a little bit.  O.k., fine.  I know what you’re thinking.  But don’t judge me.  I realize the irony of my situation—that I, too, will one day don the adult diaper.  But sweet Jebus, until that day comes, let the aged and I keep our distance. At this point, you may be asking yourself what this has to do with my battle against Fatty McGhee.  Well, if there’s one thing that Fatty hates, it’s getting weighed, a ritual upon which they insist at most doctors’ offices (believe me, I’ve tried to stop them).  And if there’s one thing that Fatty loves, besides bacon, it’s the sauce...booze...grown-up juice.    On the new patient form, there’s a question about the sauce—specifically, how much of it do you drink.  Well, on most of these forms, you get to circle a number per week.  I like those, because the lie is so easy.  Just circle 2.  That’s what they want.  But this one asked “How much do you drink?”  And then it provided a blank space.  Shit.  I tried to think of a reasonable number that was somewhat close to the truth, but every answer that was even remotely honest seemed like too much, so I just wrote, “probably too much.”  Perfect.  Finally, the nurse called me back through the catacombs of the office to be weighed.  “You bastard!” Fatty shouted at the scale. I took off my shoes, stepped up, and requested, “Look, could you just write down my weight without telling me?  I’m obviously not going to use the information constructively.” “Sure,” she agreed, and then she ushered me to a smaller, private room, where I could read AARP in solitude while I waited for another twenty minutes.  Dr. Lob knocked gingerly on the door.  He had a beard, which I don’t like, because I feel that they are dishonest (what are you hiding behind all that facial scruff?) and he trembled slightly as he thumbed through my scant file.  Then he paused. “How much do you drink?”  He was clearly exasperated by my written response. “About two glasses of wine a night?”  Please let that be the right number. “That’s probably too much.  We like that number to be closer to two drinks per week.” Fatty wanted to tell him that his beard sucked and that his hands looked like cabbages, but instead I just nodded.  Sigh.  Goodbye box-wine.  I’ll miss you.