When you get to the age where you are officially over the hill, there’s two things for sure that happen. One, gravity works a lot better. (This is true for both sexes.) Secondly, doctors start performing more and more tests on you so that they can better monitor your slow but sure demise.

During my last annual physical, my doctor informed me that I was now at the age where I should get a colonoscopy for precautionary measures. Now, the procedure itself didn’t seem so bad, but the preparation sounded like sheer hell. They put you on a diet where the delicacies are chicken broth and popsicles (and even then cherry is taboo), and you spend all day on the throne. You become, as Larry the Cable Guy puts it, “King of the Poopers.”

He referrerd me to a specialist who performs these procedures, and I managed to ignore the messages from the nurse who called several times to schedule the appointment. I could not, however, ignore my wife’s encouragements to get the deed done. I must say, she looks out for my health a lot more than I do myself. I like to think it’s because she loves me so much, but I really believe it’s just a sign that I’m not carrying enough life insurance.

I managed to procrastinate for about six months, but, seeing that my lady wouldn’t let up, I finally caved. Today was the big day. So, yesterday was “the prep”. The instructions are to drink a half gallon of this concoction that’s supposed to clean you out. I hadn’t drank so much fluid so fast since I was on the eight man keg team for my college fraternity. I felt like I had swallowed Lake Ponchartrain.

That wasn’t the worst part of it, though. That evening, it was our turn to work the bingo for the Knights of Columbus. I have a ritual for this duty. I start off in the kitchen cooking the cheeseburgers. Being the chef, I always treat myself to a nice big double cheeseburger, smothered with fried onions, mustard, and lettuce. So here I am cooking and smelling these cheeseburgers, denied my usual pleasure. I glance back to see my wife at the other end of the kitchen, snickering as she prepares the popcorn (which is my normal desert, another pleasure that I am denied on this particular evening).

So today I go through the procedure, and I’m given a clean bill of health. That doesn’t surprise me, given the special high fiber cereal that she always feeds me for breakfast. It tastes like I’m eating pine bark mulch with a few nuts tossed in.

On my way out, the nurse warns me to consume light meals for the next day or so. Screw that; I made a beeline out of the clinic straight to Logan’s Roadhouse for a big steak and french fries.

Having endured this ordeal, I think that I’m going to go out and get a supplimental life insurance policy. That way I ought to be able to smoke and drink to my heart’s content, and avoid the doctor’s office without my wife’s objections.

What can I say? I like to live my life according to the lyrics of Jimmy Buffett songs. There’s one that goes:

“I’d rather die while I’m living than live while I’m dead.”