My Curse

An aspect of my person that conduits unnecessary frustration into my life is my ability to stay in good health. Half of it is my fault, the other half lies blame on my genetic history. I come from some pretty strong stock.

So, the half that is my fault accuses from one corner of the universe where chocolate, especially the sickening milk variety, does not garner preference over oatmeal. I love oatmeal. I eat it in serene bliss, the fiber and nutty goodness of steel cut oats suspended in boiling water with a small pat of butter and a touch of honey taking me to places I assume donuts take the overweight. I don't mean to be healthy, but my meal plan on a typical day involves salads, lean proteins, and a good shot of greens. Keep your snickers, hand me the blueberries. So, what is the big deal?

People hate me.

I recently made my way through the trough on the conveyor belt to pay for some groceries and the woman celebrating some fairly unkind decades who ran my food over the laser had all kinds of commentary. Her flappy jowls kept time to her tirade, wobbling fore and aft, her skin was yellowed and crumpled in smoker's jaundice. "Wow, what the heck is 'hoomis'? How do you eat these pita deals? That's sure a lot of celery, what you trying to live forever? Hey everybody look at this health nut here! Oh and you rode your bike? Boy, I think you're missing out on life. You trying to look pretty? I never ate any of that crap. I do fine."

I held my tongue, the line of dusty Carhartt jackets behind me shuffling back and forth try to get a good look at the garbanzo eating bitch. I said, "Well, ma'am, I don't want to live forever or even past your age, I just don't want to look like you when I get there."

That was brilliant and cutting. I only said it in my head, though. I'm a bitch.

This morning I had to get a checkup from the VA. I filled out my little form saying that I drink way too much, I eat like a horse, I have PTSD out the ass, and I am in danger of killing myself with some high risk activity (i.e. mountain biking, river rafting, etc.) imminently. When my name was called, I walked into the little room where an aged but beautiful silver haired woman told me kindly to sit. While she reviewed my clipboard of papers, she pointed to a scale. My feet touched the pad and LED numbers began to swirl. 197.5. I returned to my chair and my arm found itself in a cuff. An old man with a dusty ballcap modestly emblazoned with the black and white ribbon of a POW walked in and took the other chair. Judging by his gut, he knew his way around a case of beer. And judging by his eyes, he knew his way around some terror and unconsoled tragedy.

He was near my weight. We talked a little about the Connie while the strap grabbed on to my arm and caused a brief panic to shoot through my veins. I am claustrophobic. The machine beeped and the titteringly helpful woman, who I noticed flirted a little with the POW, looked over my shoulder to the infernal machine with its grip of death tunneling my vision. Her eyes rolled back and a look of contempt shot through her graying eyes. "111 over 73."

The words fell in a pile of lukewarm poo on the floor. She was angry at me. She met the eyes of her assistant and they both coughed out snide little laughs.

I can not vouch for any basis in reality past this point.

"Looks like we got ourselves some type of damn athlete."

"I'm sorry," i said, "did I do something wrong?"

Then she slapped me and told me to go out and run a marathon or some shit. Her words, not mine. The POW rose to come to my aid but the vicious Valkyries beat him back into his chair and slapped the blood pressure strap on him, it tightened and held him down. The swaggering woman smacked my knee with a mallet, harder that Hippocrates would have liked I might add. My knee jerked with immediacy. "Wow, I'll be goddamned, Champ Bailey, you made any touchdowns today?"

"Champ Bailey is a corner back, he rarely..."

"Shut your mouth, health boy." Her cold eyes searched me, "You got any healthy shit in that backpack of yours?"

"I...I don't know."

We both lunged for my bag, but my superior speed was defeated by the iron grip of her BP/P torture device. She ripped my bag from the floor, a bag of unroasted almonds falling from the open pocket.

"I swear I only eat them covered in milk chocolate and sugar!"

"Ha! You lie like that goddamn Kraut I 'interrogated' back before your parents were born. You a Kraut, boy? Or does kraut have too much sodium for you, sissy boy?"

"Um...no."

"Oh," she turned off the lights plunging our little room into darkness, "I think you may have a little Nazi in you. Health Nazi. You drink coffee this morning?"

I heard her booties scraping the cold tile floor. "No..."

I could hear her lips pull from her teeth in a sneer.

"...I mean yes! I drank four cups for breakfast. Five, and I drink eight for lunch. I don't even like water, I swear!"

The strap on my arm cinched tighter and the sound of cold steel filled the room.