REALITY?: The Dreaded Doctor’s Visit

Unless they  catch me or I myself suspect a serious problem (like three band-aids won’t stop the bleeding) I do not go regularly to a doctor.  I do not even have a primary care physician, depending upon the gynocologist I used to go to on a fairly regular basis (every four years?) to at the very least glance up at my face now and again.

But an appointment I thought I had to reschedule was rescheduled by the cardiologist’s all too efficient office staff and I must face him, go toe to toe with him this morning.  He’s tough; he looks me in the eye.

Do I still feel yucky?  Yes.

Have I been exercising?  Good God, no!  I don’t even have the will to make a sandwich much less hop on a bike.

Have I switched to decaf?  No. Would you give up chocolate for the rest of your life?

Have I stopped smoking?  Maybe.  The stress level’s gone down a bit and the depression makes me reluctant to open my mouth wide enough, so yes, I think finally I might have.