Adventure factors high on a lot of bucket lists and it seems like everyone wants to skydive, run with the bulls in Pamplona, and swim with sharks.
Let’s break this down, shall we? Folks either want to voluntarily jump out of airplanes, take a jog in front of thousands of pounds of angry, charging bulls with nothing to protect themselves save for a bandanna and a pair of Air Nikes, or splash around with a bunch of creatures who have “man-eating” as part of their name?
Um, A) you are not James Bond, and B) is everyone desperate to nullify their insurance policies? Come on, people! Hazardous activities are not permissible under standard coverage! [Please, I beg you to make sure the purveyor of such activities has liability coverage before you strap yourself to a bungee cord and take a leap of faith.]
Also, you don’t think that sometime soon M plans to have a sit-down with one Bond, James Bond so they can renegotiate his long-term care coverage? That man is an actuarial nightmare and he’s costing the British taxpayers a mint!
What’s a shame is that I can’t put “not die” on my bucket list, but perhaps I can invite the insurance agent over again, because the hour we spent discussing net premium earnings truly felt like an entire lifetime.
I’ve tabled the thoughts of my bucket list because my more immediate concern is going through this stupid insurance physical. The only upside is when you opt for private insurance, they come to you, instead of vice versa. We’ve been sitting at our kitchen table for an hour with a nurse, recounting every single health-related detail of our combined eighty-plus years on earth. This wouldn’t be so bad except she hasn’t drawn samples yet so we can’t have coffee. [As I’m always one step ahead of Fletch, I volunteer to go first.]
For the most part, I’ve been a paragon of health with zero surgeries, actual diseases, [Save for all the ones I self-diagnosed on WebMD.] or broken bones, although more through a fluke of sturdy genetics, rather than decent planning or effort. I’ve only had one hospitalization and that was for pneumonia in sixth grade. I didn’t even have to be admitted, but we were moving out of my dad’s little temporary apartment and into our first house in Indiana that week. Frankly, the whole hospital thing was easier from a logistical standpoint. Really, this shouldn’t even count and I tell the nurse as much.
However, her ears prick up when I mention that this summer my doctor thought I might have a pulmonary embolism. I was just off of twenty-one days of consecutive flights and I had tightness in my chest. Turns out it wasn’t a blood clot at all. Rather, everything was stress-related due to trying to buy a house and move, but we didn’t know for sure until I was tested.
The nurse consults her chart. “You had an MRI?”
“Yep,” I reply. “The doctor didn’t like my d-bagger levels—”
“Jen, I think it’s D-dimer,” Fletch interrupts with a smirk.
I glower at him from across the table. “Oh, you’re helpful now. But on the day that the doctor said I needed an MRI immediately, you made us stop for coffee first. I might have been DYING but you needed an iced latte.”
He shrugs. “Please, Starbucks was in the lobby of the professional building. We had to pass right by it to get to the car! And Dr. Z’s an alarmist. She humors you by checking for everything, or do you not remember the parasite incident? [Don’t ask.] You were fine and on the slim, slim chance you weren’t, I figured we’d be at the hospital for a long time and then I’d really be wishing I had coffee.”
I tap the table with my index finger. “Please make a note in his chart that my husband is a jerk. Also, he’s addicted to caffeine.”
The nurse scratches more notes on her pad. “So this happened in June?”
I shoot Fletch another look. “Yes.”
“What was the date of your last mammogram?”
I shift in my seat. “Never?”
“You’ve never had a mammogram?”
“No.”
“Even a baseline reading?”
“No.”
She peers at me from over the top of her paperwork. “Why not?”
Um, the same reason I didn’t pay State of Illinois taxes back when I was unemployed? Because it seemed annoying and definitely not something I’d enjoy doing? Because I was behaving like a child? Because doing so seemed unpleasant and in weighing risk versus reward, procrastination came out the winner?
None of these seem like answers that should go in my permanent record, so I tell her I’ll schedule one immediately. Then she draws my blood and I pee in a cup, followed immediately by washing my hands and starting the coffeemaker.
While Fletch does his interview, I sit across from him and remark about how particularly rich, smoky, and delicious the coffee tastes today.
Iced latte, indeed.
Scheduling my mammogram takes all of two minutes.
That is, after eight months of putting it off.
I know, I know, but I’m here now, okay?
I made the appointment yesterday for the first thing this morning so I wouldn’t have the chance to chicken out or get distracted again for three seasons.
I check in at the Women’s Center in the Lake Forest Hospital and the first thing I see is the plaque with John Hughes’s and his wife Nancy’s names on it. Seeing his name in this community makes me so happy that I forget to be nervous. First, John Hughes helps me make sense of high school and now he’s here to make sure I don’t freak out at this very adult experience? Sir, your legacy lives on.
Anyway, the only downside so far is that I can’t wear perfume, deodorant, or powder, but I’ve got all of the above in my purse and can put them on the second I’ve finished. From what I’ve been told, the mammogram isn’t painful so much as it is uncomfortable. [I bet it’s less of a pain in the ass than the whole-body MRI with that weird vein dye they inject that makes you feel like you’ve just wet your pants.]
I change into my gown and exit to a waiting area that’s full of coffee fixings and Quaker Chewy Granola Bars. But before I can choose between chocolate chip and peanut butter chocolate chip, I’m whisked down the hallway into the mammogram room.
The tech explains how I’m supposed to stand while the big plastic plates clamp me into place. As I remove my gown and the tech guides me into position, I realize what a prime opportunity this is.
“Excuse me, since we’re here, can you please take a moment and look at this contrast? Like, as a medical professional?” I point to the white part of my side boob, holding up a forearm whose color can best be described as Rich Corinthian Leather. “I mean, I have the best tan of my life and outside of my husband, no one ever sees me with my shirt off so they don’t understand how naturally pasty I really am. This is a tan.”
The tech nods. “That is impressive.”
“Thank you. You may proceed.”
The process… is not comfortable. Actually, it sucks. The act of turning each appendage into a pancake is like the worst purple nurple ever, but it’s only twenty seconds per pose and I imagine it’s a lot better than breast cancer. My friend Stacey says when she goes in, they have to switch to the big plates so I feel it’s a minor victory when I only have to use the regular ones.
I clock the whole procedure from entry to exit and I’m back in my car twenty minutes after I arrive. I’d have been here a minute sooner, but I was pawing through the granola bars.
I have to admit, out of everything I’ve done so far, this feels like the most adult decision I’ve made in my life and the process was remarkably easy. The gearing up for it was hard, but now that it’s done I’m kicking myself for resisting for so long.
What I’m learning is the process of becoming a fully fledged grown-up isn’t anything like I imagined as a kid, but each step I’ve taken has been a necessary one. Nothing that I’ve done has been glamorous, yet there’s comfort in knowing that even James Bond gets his prostate checked.
Reluctant Adult Lesson Learned:
YOU ARE GOING TO DIE. Probably not today, but you’ll feel marginally better about it if you g
et your shit together first.
C·H·A·P·T·E·R E·I·G·H·T·E·E·N
The One About the Monkey
There’s an expression that goes, “A friend will help you move. A good friend will help you move a body.”
I’m exceptionally fortunate to have a group of girls [Doesn’t matter if we’re over forty—we can call ourselves girls if we want.] in my life that would absolutely help me move a body. Of course, Stacey wouldn’t move it herself, but she’d give me the name of a guy who moves bodies for a reasonable fee and has tons of excellent references and in fact, did I know he used to move bodies for Sammy “the Bull” Gravano? [Quoth Stacey: “We’re Jews. We have a guy for everything.”] And after the guy and I are done moving the body, she’ll happily provide tea and cake at her place so we can do a conversational postmortem on who needed a killing in the first place.
Gina might not be so keen on, say, physically wrapping a body in a rug with me, either. I mean, she would, but she’s busy running her empire during business hours. At any point in time, Gina’s doing work for six clients, armed with no less than three cell phones, two laptops, a personal Wi-Fi hot spot, and a power strip. However, she’d be unbelievably helpful in negotiating with the owner of the place where we’d dump the body, in supporting my decision to have offed the body in the first place, and in finding an even better rug afterward, because she knew how well it tied the room together.
As for Tracey, she’s the kind of person who’d check if I also required assistance with the stabbing/shooting/poisoning to create the body needing moving in the first place.
My friends are the best.
I hook up with these three gals every week for lunch in the city, even though I live thirty miles away now. I’ve never left a date with the 2-Live Lunch Crew without a throat sore from laughing. My favorite lunches ever were back when Tracey dipped her toe into the online dating pool. For two blissful months until she got too creeped out, Tracey reigned over lunch with the funniest stories.
“Check this one out,” she said one day last spring. She pulled up a photograph of an elderly suitor on her iPhone. “Got this through Chemistry.com. Says he’s thirty-seven.”
Gina barked with laughter before passing the phone. “I’m sure he was thirty-seven… thirty-seven years ago when this was taken.”
Stacey inspected it next. “No, he’s not thirty-seven. He’s clearly dyslexic. What he meant to say was that he’s seventy-three.”
I studied the photo when it was my turn. “Did any of you notice that he looks exactly like Ronald Reagan?” And then none of us could eat our breakfast burritos because we couldn’t stop pinging Tracey with one-liners about winning one for the Gipper. It was beautiful. [More of Tracey’s (barely fictionalized) dating adventures can be found in Off the Menu, by Stacey Ballis, in stores July 2012!]
I didn’t meet any of these gals until I was in my late thirties, so anyone who says it’s impossible to make friends after college is dead wrong. The fact that they aren’t old friends has no bearing on the quality of those friendships. Maybe the four of us don’t have twenty years of shared history, but we will fifteen years from now.
Although I’m generally loath to hold up Sex and the City as a good example, the show was a testament to women’s relationships with each other. If Carrie didn’t have Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha, would she even have been Carrie at all?
I feel like I’m a better me—quicker, funnier, more trusting—having these women in my life. I don’t care how happily married you are or how deeply enmeshed you are with your children and family and career—every woman needs a couple of chicks who’ll break out the sangria just because you need to vent. If you’re hesitant to put yourself out there by being open to meeting new girlfriends, please take the risk because it’s worth it.
Anyway, because Tracey is who she is, I knew she’d participate in my latest scheme. When I got to lunch last week—and after everyone politely entertained my usual five-minute rant on why every driver on the road (except for me) is stupid—I said, “I have two words for you that are going to change your life: Banana Derby.”
“Do I want to know?” Gina asked.
“I do not want to know,” Stacey stated.
All Tracey said was, “I’m in.”
How awesome is she?
For some quick background, I make it a habit to scan the local online newspaper because it’s always filled with gems like “Lake Bluff Family Gains Approval to Raise Backyard Fence” [Quite a story, but I’ll probably wait for the movie.] and “County Questions Mental Health of Man Who Exposed Himself at Walker Brothers Pancake House” [Listen, that shit may fly at Denny’s but NOT at Walker Brothers.] and “Lake Forest Shakes off Federal Credit Downgrade Worries.” [Bless their denial-loving hearts.] Recently they posted the article “Two Dead after Tollway Driver Goes Wrong Way” underneath a picture of a little girl riding an alligator, which garnered a number of complaints. (Actually, I was glad to see that I wasn’t the only asshole who felt bad about inadvertently laughing at the juxtaposition.)
Anyway, I read about how the Lake County Fair was starting soon and that surprised me. I didn’t realize I lived in the kind of rural area where county fairs existed. There are farms up here? I mean, within five square miles of my house, there’s a Saks Fifth Ave store, two Williams-Sonomas, ten Starbucks, and a Maserati dealership. But farms? Who knew? [I guess it stands to reason that the guys at the Farmers’ Market on the square come from somewhere, though.]
The county fair was an institution when I lived in Indiana. All year long my classmates in 4-H would prep their livestock to show. I remember being astounded at prices their animals fetched at auction; I’m talking thousands of dollars for a prize steer or sow. For months before the fair, kids toiled away on their art and sewing projects and I vaguely recall someone talking about mixing seeds to create a new corn hybrid.
Honestly? I didn’t get it.
Before we moved to Indiana, I lived in urban areas. I grew up going to museums and theme parks, so I thought I was far too cool to slum around some stupid barn full of hand-stitched apron displays and of pies you couldn’t eat. Plus carnies manning death traps masquerading as Ferris wheels and Tilt-A-Whirls?
Thank you, no.
Okay, fine, I still went because what else is there to do in Huntington, Indiana?
But grudgingly. Oh, so grudgingly.
What I’m noticing is the more time passes, the more I appreciate anything nostalgic even if I hated said bit of memorabilia at the time. Like a few weeks ago when I was cruising around in Fletch’s car, windows down and sunroof open, collar popped, and Def Leppard came on satellite radio. I immediately cranked it up. When I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror, my first thought was… If it were still 1983, I would be the coolest person ever. Then my second thought was… Since when do I like “Pour Some Sugar on Me”?
The befuddled excitement over Def Leppard was exactly how I felt at the thought of attending the fair, so I pulled up their Web site for more information. Back in the day, I equated the hours random high school boyfriends spent dragging me around the stinking, dusty fairgrounds with visiting the dentist. [FYI, guys? This is why I didn’t put out.] Painful, but necessary. But now? I saw the potential for camp and kitsch all over it, so I was intrigued.
And when I read about the Banana Derby? Sold!
“What’s a Banana Derby?” Gina prompted.
“Picture this, if you will,” I said. “Imagine a couple of capuchin monkeys, all dressed up in colorful jockey silks. Now imagine dogs wearing saddles. Put the monkeys on the dogs and have them race each other around a small track. Bingo! Banana Derby! Monkeys! In costume! Racing dogs! Believe it! Now which of you naysayers other than Tracey is in for the ride of your lives?”
“I have to work that day,” Gina said.
“I’m out of town,” Stacey added.
“You don’t even know when it is yet!” I protested while they had the courtesy to at least ap
pear sheepish.
“Jen, if these two don’t want to have a good time, then we don’t need them,” Tracey said. She and I made plans to meet up while our fun-hating friends talked amongst themselves.
It’s a week later and Tracey, Fletch, and I have just arrived at the fair. We pay our entrance fee and the second we walk in the gates, we’re overwhelmed by the smell of fair food.
Oh, fair food.
I forgot about fair food.
Everywhere we look, there are lurid neon booths selling the kinds of magical concoctions that can be crafted only by a carnie’s skilled hands. I’m instantly torn between every single vendor’s siren song and I can’t figure out what I want to stuff in my mouth first. [This must be how every red-blooded American frat guy feels when set loose in Amsterdam’s Red Light District for the first time.]
I practically salivate as we pass the vendor boasting roasted pork chops on a stick.
Food on a stick!
Yes! Genius!
Everyone knows that anything can be made better by placing it on a stick. I mean, pork chops: lovely on their own, but served on a skewer? Whoa!
An apple? Meh, okay, I guess.
An apple covered with a nonnutritive sugar varnish and presented on a tiny wooden stake? Heck, yeah!
Corn on the cob? Very nice, thank you.
Corn on the cob, dunked in a vat of butter and slapped on a stick? OH, SWEET BABY RAY, YES!
While we scurry to the Banana Derby (post time is at one p.m. sharp) I make mental note of my dining choices. I go all Mr. Microphone commercial on the vendors—“Hey, good-lookin’, we’ll be back to pick you up later!” [In retrospect, does that portion of the commercial seem a bit date-rape-y to anyone else?]
Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development Page 15
