A bit of a dark cloud above the old corpus
Health insurance, that fair-weather friend of the aging, had me down at the doctor's this morning, getting a complete physical work-up. The good news is that I am not dead in the conventional sense; the bad news is that high blood pressure requires me to drastically reduce my intake of salts, fatty foods, alcohol, and tobacco. You do not misread me: the four seasons of my day are to be shuttered and replaced with a regimen of, oh, I don't know—foraging for cucumbers in tight black pants, or something like that. I'm a bit downcast this evening as I have a last hurrah with a plate of speck, taleggio, crusty bread, and a stiff pour of a favorite aniseed beverage. Tomorrow it's wild cucumbers and strained tomato-water for this old varsity coat. If you pass me in the street and I am the ghost of a wisp of a man, his eyes sunken, his skin lacking that vitality which comes with cholesterol and pleasure, do not mock me, for I will have my cucumber-rifle packed with dry powder, and although its sting is a modest one, it does drive home the point that I've suffered enough for one day and there is no room at the inn for your barbs.