My Friend, My Blog

Each week I leave my senior paradise and head 45 minutes south to my previous neighborhood for an afternoon of lunch and then Mah Jongg with old friends. Those of you who have read my book, Retired NOT Expired, know that this lunch bunch and their spouses are the inspiration of much of the humor in the book—indeed one of the husband’s wants to know who will play him in the potential movie since Cary Grant is dead.(I can dream, can’t I?).

Anyway, back to the point. If you remember the chapter, “Weight, Weight Don’t Tell Me,” one of my friend’s propensity for buying diet books inspired one of the funny fictional characters. Yesterday, while we were all sitting around one player’s kitchen table, a strange beeping could be heard. Immediately, each of us checked our cell phones to see which one had “laryngitis.” “It’s not your cell phones. It’s this.” With that said, my friend picked up her loose sleeve.

At first, as she explained her newest weight reduction plan, we all listened with straight faces.The gizmo, which resembled a mini blood pressure machine, was “telling her” she wasn’t burning up the calories she was consuming. I’m not sure of the details, but it seems this gadget monitors how many calories she burns a day and lets her know if she isn’t moving enough to burn off her allotment.

She never finished her explanation. Uncontrollable fits of laughter interrupted her mini lecture. When the rest of us regained our composure, I said, “People want me to begin my next book. I didn’t have a topic until now, but today I do—in fact it might be half way written. I’ll call it, My Friend, My Blog.”

More laughter erupted. The dieter was the only one who didn’t understand. You see, she doesn’t read my blogs and all the others do. They know I’ve written several blogs about her—most recently one about cell phones. When she realized what we were laughing at, she admitted she better begin to read them. Then she walked around the room until her "toy" silenced.

Oh – if this thing really works, I know what I want for Mother’s Day!

The Shortest Love Affair

I woke this past Monday wincing with lower back pain. It was too acute for me to drive the hour to my old neighborhood to the doctor who usually gives me the magic shot that calms the spasm caused by a couple of degenerating disks. The time had come to try the local orthopedic doctor.

I called his office as soon as it opened and his appointment giver’s response was predictable. She asked the standard, “How fast can you get here?” question. I learned years ago that unless the patient answers “immediately,” the appointment is put off for a month. I was given a mid-morning appointment.

After the x-rays were taken, the doctor saw me. He rattled off the name of my condition, which was not news to me. He agreed with my old doctor’s diagnosis. He told me he was giving me the magic shot to reduce the inflammation – also expected. He then fired away new orders – orders my previous doctor never uttered. He explicitly told me I could not bend my back – no bed making, no laundry, no cleaning bathrooms – nothing that could put a strain on my lower back. “Total rest for a week and the spasm will be gone.”

I was in seventh heaven, delighted in my decision not to travel to see old reliable. I had found a perfect doctor. I wished Hubby was with me because I doubted he would believe this new magic cure. Dream doc ruined our perfect relationship when he added, “And you need to loose 20-30 pounds.”

He pointed to my “Seniorville 20” - the spare tire I put on around my waist this past year. He explained that the weight dangles from my hips like a lead weight and strains my disks, especially when I exercise or tie my shoelaces.

I think next time my back is in spasm, I’ll go back to my old doctor. His spare tire is bigger than mine is.