Decrepit

On May 30th, 2006, I turned twenty-eight years old. Today, August 29, 2006, I simply turned old. I got a phone call from my doctor with the results of my physical that I had last week. I had not had a physical since going out for track in high school. Well, my doctor was very impressed. He poked, prodded, and punctured me (for blood—you’re dirty. I like that!). He went on and on about how in shape I am and what great care I have taken of myself. He said I would live forever. He really did. I believe him. Directly after the physical, I decided to celebrate, with a double cheeseburger (with mayonnaise, without pickles), tatter tots with cheese, and a cherry-vanilla coke—followed by a large portion of Cake Batter ice cream with cookie dough, white chocolate chips, walnuts, raspberries, and malt mixed in, from Cold Stone. Here’s to my perfect health!
Well, today I got the call. I have not been stressed about it, but when they called fear shot through me. HIV test! Now, there is no reason to be concerned. I got tested before and after my boyfriend broke up with me over ten weeks ago, so I could assure him we are both healthy. I have been celibate ever since (too much information? Nah, you love it!). It is physically impossible for me to have become infected. Still, my wonderful fundamental roots show their heads every now and again, GAY=AIDS. Just by breathing, I will contract it. Right? Well, that was fine, of course. Disease free. However, the doctor informed me that my cholesterol is rather higher than he anticipated. Well, Duh! I could have told him that. My fundamental upbringing came with a side order of deep fried beef! Vegetable? Why that baked potato with cheese and sour cream covers that concern. He said, I should eat less red meat (more chicken—I mainly eat chicken anyway, but why argue), stay away from saturated fat (I did not mention that I used to eat Crisco out of the can when I was a kid), and eat more “leafy greens” (I assume he means the crap I feed to my lesbian sister rabbits in my back yard). He may as well ask me to forget how to say ‘worsh’ instead of wash, ignore my cowboy boots, break my Pasty Cline and Marie Osmond albums, deny my chicken raising past, and suppress the legacy of religious guilt. Stay away from fried food? I will starve. There is no other kind of food. Maybe we could reach a compromise. Ever had fried spinach? Amazing!
Oh, well, I am going to live forever—he promised! Sonic, anyone?