Let me try to remember now -- not my forte lately -- I wanted to write about three things. Losing weight. And ... I dunno. Maybe the so-called War Against Christmas. Hypochondria. And remembering things. Most of this is just stuff that's been hanging around my brain recently, but I haven't written about it because, you know, life and stuff.Two weeks ago, I had a lovely lunch with the Chum and E. At some point, I made reference to the fact that I want to lose 30 pounds. They were surprised. Now, they didn't do one of those "Oh no you don't, you're so thin already!" because I'm not, and that wasn't their point. Their point was, why should I bother? At this age, just take what life gives you, no one cares if you're a little heavier, you look fine, etc. etc. So I've been thinking about that. If I had had the presence of mind right then, I would have asked them both why they color their hair. It's the same thing, really. They color their hair because it helps keep their actual physical appearance in line with their self-image. Which is a big part of the weight loss for me, but also, I just don't feel right, or good, particularly, at this weight. I'm not shooting for skinny; I'll still be overweight according to all those bullshit charts. I'm not even saying I can do it. Just that I think I'd feel better at 30 pounds less.
That's one.
The separation of church and state is an essential part of American society. What this means is what it says: Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof. It means that the government cannot tell me what religion to follow, yes? Now, there are people who get all bent out of shape because sales clerks or greeters in stores call out a cheery "Merry Christmas!" to them and they're not Christians! So they're offended by this somehow! Or someone thinks they should be or might be, and then someone, and you know this, is gonna get sued somewhere.
Bah, and humbug, too. I've said this before and I'll say it again: as someone who has grown up in this country as a member of a minority religious/ethnic group, it became clear to me at a very young age that Christmas was a Really Big Deal, and that's the way it was. I sang Silent Night in school, and took part in Christmas pageants. I sat on Santa's lap in Macy's. When you are a member of a minority, you don't want to be forced to do it some other way (and the Constitution protects us from that), but we certainly don't have the right to tell the majority to stop doing things their way. If someone says Merry Christmas to me, I take it in the spirit it was offered, and I offer it right back in the same spirit. Some people are just crazy.
That's two.
Hypochondria. Hypochondria is a belief that real or imagined physical symptoms are signs of a serious illness, despite medical reassurance and other evidence to the contrary. So, according to this definition, I am not a hypochondriac, because I don't believe that I have serious illness despite medical evidence. When they tell me I'm okay, I breathe a sigh of relief and move on. I do sometimes think my symptoms are more serious than they are until I get them checked out. So okay, I've got to let that go: I am not a hypochondriac. Falling apart maybe, but I'm not imagining it.
That's three.
My memory has been for absolute shit lately. Here's my most recent problem. Thursday, when I was wondering if I could have shingles again, and recalling my last case of shingles, I remembered that I was diagnosed back then by a dermatologist. I went to him because I had this weird rash; it didn't occur to me at the time that I might have a virus and should see my family doctor. (Not that he could have done anything in 1973.) This was a dermatologist I had gone to since I was 15, mostly for acne treatments. Everyone in Bizarro Town, it seemed, went to him. His office was in nearby Paterson, near the hospital, in a beautiful old house right on the park. He was a very quirky old guy; the diploma on his wall said that he'd graduated from medical school in 1927. He was scary to lots of the kids who went to him, but really, he just had a phenomenally dry sense of humor, which the Sibs and I enjoyed tremendously, so we thought he was a hoot. I can tell you more and more details about all my visits there, all except ...
WHAT THE HELL WAS HIS NAME???!!???
This has been driving me crazy for days. I forgot to ask the Sibs about it until an hour or so ago, and she couldn't remember either. We tried all different ways to jog each other's memories: What letter did it start with? Was it a Jewish name? It was a German Jewish name! And on and on and on. We tried to come up with ways to find out, none of which were good ways. After we got off the phone, I looked up the hospital website to see if there was a library I could call on Monday, maybe it would be in their records, or on a plaque or something. (And I would say, "You know, 40 years ago, bald man, white moustache, dry sense of humor?" Uh huh.) I found myself at the doctor's directory, and looked up dermatologists. There's only one on staff now, a Dr. Katz.
Dr. Katz. Doctor Katz. DoctorKatzDoctorKatzDoctorKatzDoctorKatzDoctorKatzDoctorKatzDoctorKulikDoctorKulik Dr. Kulik. It was Dr. Kulik.
{deep and satisfied sigh of relief}
Got it. And that's Four.
