My annual physical is next week.
I don’t like my annual physical.
It ranks somewhere between dental procedures and tax returns.
I observe Vince Lombardi time, arriving fifteen minutes early for an appointment. The receptionist always makes me wait. I kill time, speculating on the illnesses of others in the waiting room.
The assistant finally beckons me to an exam room. I sit on the table’s crinkly paper with my feet dangling like a toddler. A disposable gown covers 20% of my body.
The physician eventually arrives with a rote apology for running late. We engage in doctor-patient conversations about blood tests, medical metrics, and physical functions. He uses phrases like for a person your age, sensible precautions, and proscribed tests. He concludes the visit with a final exam that all men dread.
Did I mention that I don’t like my annual physical?
The receptionist completes the paperwork before dismissing me. I don’t even get a lollipop or a 12-month/12K-mile warranty for my troubles.
The best part of the day is knowing that my NEXT physical is 364 days away.
Stay healthy, my friends.
Treasure in Jars of Clay 
nothing more daunting than waiting around for an alarmist Dr. Invariably having to wait…and wait.
I’ll be going in for a lung scan this morning….fear is overwhelming. Had to wait 10 days for this appt. MY alarmist Dr indicates it’s life or death.
always needing to cover their “liabilities”
the only Doctor I like is my orthopedic.
Dr. Bill, trust you got a clean bill of health. You’re still a baby!!!
Helen
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