Advance Warnings

Well, I guess it's come to this. I am finally entering the blogosphere, hopping aboard the blog boat, deciding to engage in the now omnipresent form of journalistic release that is the verbal equivalent of a colonoscopy prep. Except that the work product, instead of being conveniently and conclusively dispatched into a plumbing fixture, is dispersed through cyberspace as what some would call either psychic effluence or grassroots populist press, depending on your point of view. But call it what you will. In these tough economic times it's saving me big bucks that would be otherwise spent on a shrink. 

A few years or so ago, ignoring the conventional wisdom of "baby steps", I launched my labors large with a flashy novel all tricked out with a fake disappearance, missing heirs, geographical cures and a sibling estrangement. I think the only thing missing was Professor Plum. At one point, when I was about halfway finished and the word count was over 80K, I actually had a couple of agents interested and impressed. But going the distance was another thing entirely. I realized that words are not necessarily my first language (did I really say that?), and after moving the characters hither and yon and hauling their story lines around, my narrative was starting to look like a preschool poster painting - bright and energetic, happily mounted on its refrigerator magnet, but lacking definition and refinement.

I am a graphic designer by trade and also by DNA, my family tree ripe with a luxuriant growth of designers and artists. So naturally I thought that upon occasion exchanging the one-thousand-dollar Adobe Creative Suite for the handy, accessible, and FREE, medium of words, would be a mere technicality. Wrong. So, what follows will have a steep learning curve but hey, it's probably the most fun I can have without getting out of my pajamas or buying a new outfit. And I don't need a corporate ID either. (See above, Fig. 01, "Artistic License".)

If I were you I'd strap on. You've read this far, what else would you be doing right now? It's going to be a bumpy ride, with high winds and choppy seas and a sometimes-broken GPS...or should I say "damaged moral compass"? Well, whatever, bring on the Dramamine.

The Procedure

So, speaking of colonoscopies, today is mine. I am at present in that limbo land where I've finished the bathroom relay, the diaper rash is on retreat, but I still can't eat or drink anything except water. It seems that the doctor du jour has outlawed eating for the duration, because, if I do indulge, the remains of the day will go straight into the doc's kisser while he is in flagrante. Under normal (and what the flock is that?) circumstances, I eat very little so I don't get why when I am strongly urged not to ingest, I am suddenly starving. Four hours to go and counting...

Now, a few months ago, I had another minor "invasive procedure" (more about that later, or maybe, uh, not), that nonetheless required general anesthesia. In hindsight (haha), I wish I had thought of doing the colon thing at the same time. I mean, as long as I am unconscious and my industrial strength medical team is in there anyway, why can't they just swing by the other orifice and check things out? Perhaps some sort of cluster processing for outpatient surgery is the medical wave of the future. Gurneys ganged up, procedure lists clipped to the johnny, little boxes checked off, and "Order Up!" echoing through the surgical suite.

My first colonoscopy appointment was last week, but I thought it prudent to cancel, figuring the snowstorm forecast for that day, combined with the speed driving habits of my spouse would be just enough to put me over the edge, anxiety-wise, and besides, how was I going to get any Xanax on board if I couldn't drink any water? So my new appointment is today, and...guess what? It snowed anyway.

What I have learned from this, though, is that if you're going to have a colonoscopy in a snowy climate, and want to avoid snow-driving, make sure you check the weather forecast BEFORE you take the laxatives! As it was, I had already downed the little maroon pills and they were going to take several hours to kick in, "kick" being the operative word here, and then decided as an afterthought to check in at weather.com. When I saw those puffy white cloud cartoons and little white dots I proceeded to cancel my appointment, inconveniently forgetting that I had, only a moment ago, cranked up the evacuation train. So much for the short term memory of a sixtysomething.

Now, while my body has entered that completely neutral zen space, a kind of gastro-intestinal satori, and I am squeaky clean on the inside, I wait, patiently, without possibility of culinary, vocational or athletic (all somehow connected) diversion, for my appointment. As I contemplate digging my car out of the snow and then driving it into the city, guided once again by my indispensable GPS (because this device effectively blocks ever actually learning how to get anywhere), I can't help but conjure the next entrepreneurial dream, tapping the aging baby boomer market: mobile colonoscopy units! A cutting edge (sorry about the pun) surgical van branded appropriately with something like "U Move It", "GutsRUs.com" or words to that effect, could cruise the neighborhood and conveniently deliver service without the customer having to drive anywhere. Your personal holding tank could be pumped out, cleaned out and probed, and you get the complimentary DVD and air freshener. You are, once again good to go! So to speak.

Epilogue:

Well, one day later, I can say that the particular variety of pharmaceuticals supplied by the local endoscopy center for my personal comfort during my "procedure" were not quite up to the job, and I was able to experience first-hand every twist, turn and switchback of the microsurgical snake as it rambled the five feet of my lower intestine. But hey, I paid by credit card, and since I am self-employed I have a health insurance deductible that is beyond "high". Having had one too many shrink and/or doctor visits in the past has disqualified me from membership in that club of happy campers whose treatment for every twinge, sniffle and cough is paid for by The Man, so I use plastic to pay, and thus get frequent flyer miles, effectively converting the peregrinations of the endoscope into a trip to Tahiti, or some other place where the seasons are more polite.

Growing Old(er) Is Not For Sissies

It seems that I have reached an age where various body parts and internal accessories are starting to show some wear and tear. In my fifties, this was cause for taking offense, as I have been informed informed on numerous occasions, gently and apologetically, by various members of the medical profession, that "it's just part of getting older". And to add to the indignity, such phrases were usually delivered by health practitioners considerably younger than me - well just about everybody on the planet is younger than me these days - and so I would think to myself..."just wait, haha, you'll get there too."

Faced with the onward march of time and its effects on my mind and body, I try to practice what I would call constructive denial. Now, constructive denial is different than your basic generic dysfunctional denial, which can impact your life in a seriously negative way. But constructive denial can have a positive influence on things and I like to practice the simple homily that if you're going to do, or not do, something, one reason is as good as another. The dog ate my homework and all that sort of stuff. I have no interest in behaving or looking like my sixtysomething age, so I am willing to take extreme measures to avoid actually appearing as the typical grandmother that I (most marvelously, gleefully and gratefully) am. Occasionally, on a good day, a medical professional will utter the phrase "I can't believe you're sixty years old", and it just makes me want to give that person a puppy, or at the very least, trot out my voice recorder and get it down on tape, available at will for playback at critical times in my day.

But something is amiss with my chronological age, an age when most people, if they have been prudent, are serenely transitioning (don't you love that word?) into retirement. I, however, for various reasons, need to stay in the job market. And so I am willing to do whatever it takes to look and feel younger. This includes, but is not limited to, aggressive surgical measures (I decline to comment further), exercise addiction, and of course, the obligatory outings with crossword puzzles and episodes of "Jeopardy". This is all to keep my body and mind honed to its thirtysomething brilliance and keep me at the peak of my remaining powers and maintain what is left of my competitive position in the job market. Well, such as it is, the waning job market.

My latest foray against the overwhelming downward march of gravity is in the practice of "facial yoga". Now, my friends say this is "cutting edge" but I tend to think that the whole point is that there is no cutting. No muss, no fuss, no nuclear credit card bill, which also means no FF miles logged for that trip to Tahiti. (See "The Procedure" above.) But on the other hand there is no downtime, and no unexplained absence from work and social activities. A few twists of the lips, furrows of the brow, and violà, you're done. And not only that, you don't have to suit up in spendy yoga wear, once again proving correct the caveat first coined by Thoreau, to "beware of any enterprise that requires new clothes".

I think, and this is only my opinion so do with it what you will, that I prefer sixtysomething to fiftysomething. Fiftysomething, to me anyway, just sounds old, tired, cast away as flotsam and jetsam and washed up on the sandbar of life, without the experience and knowledge to provide that certain character, veneration, and stature. Sixtysomething, on the other hand, sounds redolent with riveting stories and edgy anecdotes, a state of mind and body worthy of respect and admiration. And, of course, for all my fiftysomething friends, this is meant in the nicest way possible. It's coming for you and you'll get there soon enough. So bring on the popcorn and enjoy the show.

Now, as I cruise along on my recumbent bicycle - the "recliner bike", a moniker provided by a random three-year-old as I zoomed by him on the bike path - my tall skinny nonfat latte secured in its bottle cage, I can't help but reflect on, say, what my mother might be doing at my age, with sixty now being the new forty and all. For starters if she ever boarded a bike in the first place, she'd have along her trusty gin and tonic in a plastic highball glass, complete with decal of the "19th hole", no custom lattes in Sigg™ bottles for her. She would not be going to the gym or logging time in an office. She'd probably be trumping tricks (sounds marginal, no?) at the local bridge club, where she and her cousin were some sort of regional champions. And, most likely, along with the cards, playing Comparative Lifestyle with her mother.