Most men believe the following:
(1) We are God’s gift to womankind, especially when preening in front of the bathroom mirror in our underwear, even if it’s while wearing dark support stockings, the kind Ed McMahon wore when he crossed his legs on The Tonight Show, and
(2) We will never die…
….but if we do die, it will be while shoveling snow or making love. We’ll dramatically clutch our chest, drop to our knees, or pin our wife to the mattress, and that will be that. Men, you see, are fatalistic warriors. This is why we never get a physical — unless our wife makes us.
Speaking of which, never casually mention to your spouse that your heart’s been going “pitter-patter.” She is bound to make a BIG DEAL about it. I no sooner got the words out of my mouth than my wife Liz sprang into action:
“You never told me that! How long has this been going on?”
I felt like a man who had been caught with lipstick on his collar. “Uh…..maybe three or four months.”
“You get in for a physical, and I mean NOW!” Liz went on and on about how I could be suffering from dangerous conditions such as Arrhythmia, Mitral Valve Prolapse, or Atrial Fibrillation.
That night I worried through a fitful sleep. The more I tried not to think about my heart, the louder it became. I was like the character in “The Telltale Heart,” except my madness was cut short by an alarm clock. Maybe something IS wrong, I thought. I made an appointment that same day.
My doctor’s name is Larry. “Larry,” I said as he peered into my ear. “There’s something I want to ask you………. Do you think it’s worth it to put premium gas in your car?”
As Larry migrated from my ears to my nose, we agreed premium wasn’t worth the money, but every now and then wouldn’t hurt.
“Larry,” I said again. “What do you think about the playoffs this year?” My doctor, nobody’s fool, sensed I was beating around the bush. He rolled me over on my side and snapped on a pair of latex gloves, transforming himself into the dreaded DR. JELLY FINGER.
Having “gotten my attention,” he quizzed me. “So Jerry, what’s really going on?”
I belatedly confessed to the heart palpitations. Larry pulled out his stethoscope and listened intently. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Your left ventricle has some premature contractions. If I’m not mistaken, your heart is keeping perfect time to the song ‘Proud Mary’ by Credence Clearwater Revival.”
“Is that bad?” I asked incredulously.
“No, I think it’s benign. But if your heart was tapping out ‘Midnight Train to Georgia,’ by Gladys Knight and the Pips, that could spell trouble. You’ve got to watch out for those Pips, you know. I’m going to order some tests, just to be on the safe side.”
By “tests” he actually meant I was to be attached, via Super-Glue, to more electrodes than Frankenstein. I would have to be wired up, 24/7, for a week and a half. Anytime I detected my heart “fluttering,” I was instructed to press the red button on my belt-monitor. My pager-sized monitor would then call a computer, probably named “Hal,” in Kanpur, India, whose job it was to compile a report and send it back to Larry my doctor. What could go wrong?
Two weeks later I had to take a “Stress Test.” Again, they glued on electrodes on my chest, but this time they stuck me on a treadmill. Then they turned it on faster and faster, like Fred Flintstone and Dino, to see if they could make my heart explode.
The joke was on them. I passed my tests with flying colors. The other good news was they could settle my heart down with a beta-blocker. Confident I was again indestructible, I girded my loins by hoisting my underwear up to my armpits, promenaded briefly in front of the mirror, and got ready to go out and shovel some snow.
To see if I could kill myself.