Tuesday, December 9, 2014


     One way I prefer not to start my day is to sit in the waiting room of a group of people having colonoscopies. First of all, I don’t ever want to see another bottle of Gatorade much less listen to everyone else’s experience with the “prep.” Mr. Wonderful is in the little pre-Propofol cubicle reading today’s news. Reading about the CIA’s release of the Torture Report and the motive behind yesterdays 10-alarm fire down the road ought to put him in just the right frame of mind for the “procedure.” I am trying to close my ears as I write, but words like “go,” “blocked,” “liquid,” “gag,” and “down here” keep leaping into the atmosphere, and I cringe while trying to tap on my lap. 

     One woman decided to engage the entire room of people with their legs crossed. She told the story (at least four times) about her husband who has been sick for five months. “He has no energy, and he’s tried everything. One medication paralyzed him for three days, and we couldn’t have sex.” She was desperate to find an answer to his problem. The five or six people who were glued to her every word offered various remedies from bean sprout pie to Cialis. Oh, my. 

     Then people started to relate stories about choking, farting and “losing it.” I don’t want to think about what they were losing, but I am quickly losing my mind. Please, please don’t tell any more stories. Let’s talk about Santa, Peter Pan, bananas--anything that isn’t brown.

     I suppose it’s appropriate that I am attending a “free” lunch sponsored by our Financial Planner. The topic is “The Love Letter.” It has to do with writing down what you want your kids to get when you die. I think that just for fun, I will leave each of them a bottle of Gatorade and a bottle of Cialis.