Can fall please get here a little quicker? I hate hot weather. I hate sunburns. I hate sweating. And I strongly dislike summer. Why couldn't I have been born somewhere where it never gets hotter than the 70s and we get a fall that lasts longer than a blink? I think we've been seriously shorted when it comes to cool, crisp fall weather. If we had only fall, spring, a short winter, and an extremely short summer, I'd be a happy camper, figuratively speaking. I say that because, now that I'm in my dotage, sleeping in a tent on the ground is not my idea of a good time. If I tried it now, I'd never get off the ground on my own. I'd be lucky to walk again. Nope, these days my idea of 'roughing it' is an air-conditioned camper without Internet or a Wi-Fi signal.
As a kid, in between running around outside, we'd jockey for position in front of the swamp cooler, trying to get little bits of water spit on us. It was sheer heaven for a household without central air conditioning. No wonder our mother got a job at the local grocery store. At least it had air conditioning and a walk-in freezer.
But I should get to the point, shouldn't I?
Fall is when I rejoice in the cooler weather, football, and the start of the holiday season. Unfortunately, it's also time for me to schedule our annual physicals. (Insert sad face here.) I don't know why I got into the habit of setting up everything, medically speaking, this time of year but once I did, the insurance companies locked us in. I'm sure it had a lot to do with my inability to suck it up and do the adult thing. I can procrastinate with the best of them. Also, it's not a very pleasant way to start my favorite season. The beginning of summer would have been more apropos for unpleasant tasks. What better way to spend a hot, miserable day than in a freezing cold examination room, sans adequate covering?
So, I've been sitting around for a couple of days mustering the courage to make the call because I know what's going to happen. The only thing our doctor likes more than writing prescriptions is sending us for bloodwork. By the time the blood-sucking techs at the 'Blood Sucking Institute' get done with us, I always feel like I could be folded into an envelope and slipped under the door. I can never keep track of how
many vials of blood are taken, but it makes me wonder if Dracula isn't in another room waiting for an infusion.
With the results on the way to his office, we are now obligated to follow through with the appointment. Our doctor likes to stare at the results and scare the bejesus out of me by muttering 'hmmm' to himself. I don't like 'hmmm.' I want to hear, 'Everything's perfect as usual. See you next year.' When he frowns like that all I can think of is 'I've got to get out of here before he can think of another test.'
For reasons only our insurance company knows, we've started receiving numerous pages of surveys to fill out before our appointments. Call me crotchety but I take umbrage to these so-called surveys since they seem to imply that as soon as we've reached a certain age, we're no longer in charge of any of our faculties.
Here are a few of the questions: Q. Can you use the telephone on your own? Can you look up numbers and dial by yourself?
A. Seriously? Telephones have been around my whole life. When I forget how to use one, then you can lock me up.
Q. Do you plan, prepare, and serve adequate meals by yourself?
A. Define adequate.
Q. Do you maintain the house alone?
A. Not if I can help it. Q. Do you do the laundry completely?
A. Well, it sure ain't the laundry fairy.
Q. Can you take your medication by yourself?
A. No, David hides it in a piece of cheese.
Q. Do you feel safe at home?
A. As opposed to what?
Q. Have you fallen in the last three months? (They ask me this EVERY WEEK!)
A. No.
Q. Do you smoke? Have you ever smoked? (Again, they ask me this EVERY WEEK!)
A. NO.
I think they need to be more concerned about their inability to remember the answers they've noted in my files.
A word to the wise– don't mess with us oldsters. We're old, we don't like it, and we get really cranky when people try to make us look incompetent.