WHAT BETTER MOMENT to have a medical stress test than during this most stressful of times. Yes, there have been other stressful periods in our nation’s history. For our “greatest generation,” it was Pearl Harbor. For their children, it was the last episode of Seinfeld. (Yes, we’re shallow, but it’s not our fault. We baby boomers were over-loved by the greatest generation. So shame on them!)
But nothing compares to living on the brink of war, with a planet on fire, and no confidence in our leadership (especially after my sweet dream about President Martin Sheen). These days, one wonders why stress tests are given in a medical office when mine could just be in the kitchen, where physicians could simply monitor me as I read the morning newspaper. An EKG tracking my rage sweats before I get to the sports page could be useful in determining a treatment plan, which should include at least switching to a monthly newspaper subscription, if there is such a thing.
But when, in the course of human events, you get chest pains, you do what the doctor tells you. Which is get on a treadmill. It seems odd that, in this age of technological innovation, such a crude and simple contraption still provides the best window into one’s cardiological health. And the doctor’s procedures are similarly tedious and unchanged. I start walking at a comfortable pace, then the doctor increases the speed, then a little more, and a little more. Then the angle is increased, then a little more, until I’m gasping for breath and convinced of one thing: This doctor is trying to kill me.
While soothingly repeating “Okay, just another minute,” it’s obvious she wants to establish a baseline for my risk of heart attack by giving me one. Then, presumably, she’d say, “Okay, just before THAT is when we should have stopped. So let that be a lesson to you. [CLEAR!] You should only exercise until you feel tired. [Wait, which of these buttons do I push? Is it this one? SwoooooshJOLT!!!!] After all, you can’t take chances with your health.”
Of course, dying on the treadmill would mean a lot of paperwork for the medical staff, so they don’t want you to succumb on the premises. In the Lyft on the way home, maybe, which would be a different matter and really none of their business.
BUT IT TURNED out my chest pains were stomach-related, and that I’m actually in good heart health. So I celebrated with two half-smokes at the nearby hot dog stand. With its delicious near-meat byproducts, this small business represents the all-important second opinion to the lifestyle advice inside the medical building next door. It’s a reminder that, even in this deeply troubled time, there are two sides to every story. And comfort food might just be the best antidote to daily moments of stress.
Our president telling his umpteenth lie? Eat a cheeseburger. Mitch McConnell installing another woefully unqualified jurist to the federal bench? A tub of cookie dough would be perfect. My granddaughter walking on the handrail of the back deck and—deeming the degree of difficulty insufficient—doing it with her eyes closed? Two words: more bacon.
But even the best of food favorites can’t dull my rage at the most stressful aspect of our modern age. Despite the big bowl of goldfish crackers in my lap, I can NOT “listen to the entire message because our menu has changed.” In this chaotic world, there’s at least one thing I can control. Right?
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