Jenny Paschall

It goes without saying that as Baby Boomers, we get aches and pains. Sometimes we visit a doctor and probably most of us take some prescription meds to control cholesterol, high blood pressure, etc etc.

But here’s my question: do we have to talk about our illnesses? Endlessly?? Why do people think fellow dinner guests are agog to hear about their latest probe or MRI? I recently had to listen to a complete stranger talk about his prostatitis. Then the rest of the party compared their recent doctor visits, amount of milligrams of whichever drug they’re taking — and the side effects, of course — then swapped recommendations for doctors who were absolute ‘must sees’ for ailments yet to be contracted.

Eventually, with gritted teeth, I said in my most English accent, “We don’t discuss illness in England. If we’re sick, we stay home until we’re better, then when we’re ready to venture out again, we’re only too delighted to leave our symptoms behind us.”

This statement was met with a stunned silence. Then one woman said, sniffily, “Well, you Brits are a different breed …,” then continued to talk about her herniated disc.

I just don’t get it. What is it with people? If they’re not talking about their illnesses, they’re talking about their insurance policies, and whether they cover dental and optometry.

So, fellow Boomers, perhaps you should consider this: talking about your aches and pains is, frankly, a pain in the butt. Your seasonal allergies and kidney stones are even less interesting than your photos of the eight grandchildren you insist on showing around the table.

You might all feel a whole lot better if you kept your illness to yourself, and made it a policy to discuss the latest movie release, New York Times bestseller, or even, heaven forbid, politics … and no, that doesn’t mean you can slip in a heart monitor story in the guise of a debate about universal healthcare!
 

Stefi is certainly turning out to be an unusual friend. After I woke up from my very drunken sleep, I decided to have a long soak in a hot, oily, deliciously smelly bath and wash my hair. Sometime during all this, Stefi must have called. Her message just said, “Glad you agreed to stop moping. I’ll meet you at 9.30 tonight at Julio’s Wine Bar.”

What? I didn’t remember making any plans with her, but I suppose I was pretty drunk when she left. Whenever that was. I looked at my watch. It was 8.15. I realized that I still didn’t have Stefi’s phone number, so I couldn’t cancel. I couldn’t stand her up either; that would be terrible. I’d never been to Julio’s (nor had I ever intended to go there), but I had passed it a few times. It was full of bored divorcees and guys looking for a quick fling. Not my kind of place at all. Still, I had no choice.

I put on my make-up and a clingy black dress – the one good thing about being indecisive is that once someone has made a decision for me, I go with the flow like a trouper.

I walked in and could not see Stefi anywhere. I stood aimlessly and awkwardly by the door watching the Saturday-night hormones swirling. I have never felt so much pounding testosterone in my life. Just as I was about to leave, Stefi came bounding up like a lollopy puppy. She looked great. Still seventies’ retro, but this time she wore the most amazing blue and gold sleeveless shift dress with blue-and-gold-strapped shoes. She put a green cocktail of some sort in my hand and led me to a table. It was far too noisy to bother with the polite hello stuff.

As we sat down, I looked over to the bar and saw a man staring at me. He was about my age and looked vaguely familiar. He smiled. I glared. Stefi, naturally, saw this. “For God’s sake,” she yelled. “Loosen up. Have some fun. He may not be the man of your dreams, but he’ll kill a few hours until darling Matt sees the error of his ways.” I glared at her too.

Next thing, he was walking towards me (actually, it was more like oozing toward me). I felt sick but smiled. He was definitely tall, dark and handsome, but his ego could be seen from outer space. He was available, willing, and probably quite able. The only thing missing was a neon sign across his crotch saying “Open for business 24 hours”.

“Well hello,” he crooned.

“Well hello” I replied, trying not to laugh. I didn’t think anyone spoke like that anymore.
I turned to introduce him to Stefi, but she had disappeared. He sat down on Stefi’s now empty chair and started chatting. Actually, he was okay – just very impressed with himself. He looked so familiar. He told me he was a gynecologist, and I realized where I had seen him before. He had been peering up from between my legs explaining about my tilted uterus. He wasn’t just any gynecologist – he was mine!

Now, this was a real dilemma. What is the social etiquette concerning being chatted up by your gynecologist? Was I supposed to tell him we had met before? Or should I be insulted that he didn’t recognize me. The thought did cross my mind that perhaps I should pull down my panties, climb onto the table, spread my legs, and say, “Remember me?” But, I thought this approach lacked subtlety. So, I just let him talk. Not difficult – he was a definite self-motivator. While he was busy impressing himself with his wit and charm, I was able to take a long, uninterrupted look at him. Actually, he was great looking. Good teeth, nice smile, gleaming hair, brown eyes, nice hands – not a bad little package. And, at least if we ever got to a little frenzied action, he would certainly know where everything was. Hey doc, I thought, I bet you know which little buttons to press. I must have smiled, and he naturally took this to be my total enchantment with his dynamic yet caring personality. He asked for my phone number. I muttered something about having just moved and couldn’t remember it, and I bolted for the bathroom. Where the hell was Stefi?

When I returned to my table, the delicious doctor had departed, and Stefi was sitting there instead. This was like musical chairs. She smiled lasciviously, “Well, you’re a fast mover, considering your reluctance to throw off your nun’s habit. In ten seconds flat you have the most eligible bachelor in the place eating out of your hand.”

“With luck, he’ll be eating a lot more than my hand,” I heard myself say the words – what on earth was happening to me? I never spoke like that. Stefi gave the dirtiest laugh I’ve ever heard outside of a bachelor party. “No, no, I didn’t mean that. Oh God, I think I’ve had too much to drink today. This green stuff on top of the wine from this afternoon is loosening my tongue,” I wailed.

Stefi laughed even harder, “A loose woman with a loose tongue. Hmm, no wonder you’re such a hit.” I started giggling too. Well, I might still be indecisive, but at least I was having fun.

Anyway, all my vile, disgusting, and delicious thoughts proved to be totally irrelevant. The doc had left, and I eventually fell into bed – very much alone – at 3 a.m. At least this had been worth giving up a face pack and a good book for.