Yoga For The Maimed And Feeble

["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published March 7, 2013] © 2013 
 
One of my first columns was about finding a yoga class for someone of my age and auto accident decrepitude.  There’s practically a yoga studio on every corner in downtown La Jolla so one wouldn’t think this was such a problem, especially when one factors in the large demographic of locals who are, well, old.  But La Jolla is nothing if not a competitive community and I have flunked out of more yoga classes than you can count.

No one ever asks me to leave, of course, but if the teacher is having to adapt every pose for me and I’m holding up the class, I start to feel the very un-yoga-ish vibes of photon missiles directed at the back of my head.  I conclude it’s time to pack up my mat and take my chakras elsewhere. 

At this point, I’m pretty good at sizing up whether a yoga class is going to work for me as soon as I walk in the door.  I’m not fooled by the brochure description of the class being “suitable for all levels.”  Yoga studios lie.  I’m sure the goddess Bhuvaneswari is not happy with them about this.

I can tell instantly if I’m in the wrong place if it’s a room full of people half my age (and worse, weight) who are wearing Yoga Attire.  Yoga Attire is characterized by suitable-for-forward-folding Nylon/Spandex tank tops over coordinated sports bras and stretchy pants, hair pulled back into a pony tail with matching scrunchie.  If I’m really in the wrong place, toenails match the bra.  I would be arrested in this outfit, if for no other reason that it would be a crime against humanity to inflict moi’s chunké derrière  in the downward dog pose to a room full of fellow yogis.  (But it would clear out the room fairly fast.)   

Younger people, inexplicably, sometimes show up at old people yoga.  I think they just want to show off.  They do balance poses without holding onto the wall, the tree pose with nary a wobble.  It is so frickin’ annoying.  

If your best pose isn’t shavasana (the resting pose), you don’t belong in a class with me.  If the room has a rope wall and the teacher has any intention of involving us with it, I can’t flee fast enough.  If the class takes place in one of those intentionally super-heated rooms, I’d have heat stroke.  People my age come with their own internal combustion furnaces.  In fact, in one of my classes, our sweet young genuinely adorable teacher always thinks the room is cold and wonders aloud why we don’t think so too.  From the back of the room comes, “Wait twenty years.”

It has taken a while, but I have indeed found classes with my demographic: Asanas for the Ossified and Svaroopa for the Somewhat Sentient are right up my alley.   But even these have their downside.  During the final relaxation, at least half of the class is snoring.  Loudly.  I mean, if oldies have a single talent, it’s falling asleep instantaneously.

I’m actually fine with snorers; it’s the moaners that disrupt my om-ish serenity.  It’s like they’ve gone into pranayama overdrive.  You begin to think you’ve been transported to the deli scene from “When Sally Met Harry.”  It’s all I can do to keep from hissing, “Do you mind???  Some of us are trying to have some inner peace over here!”

The other thing I’ve noticed in older people yoga is that when we go to put away our props (blocks, blankets, etc.) after class, I am always in line behind the precision blanket folder who decides that all the rest of the people ahead of her did not fold their blankets correctly. You just know exactly what her linen closet looks like.  But my yoga-cultivated calm starts fading fast waiting for her.

Here's one of the reasons why:  Classes are an hour and 15 minutes but parking around yoga studios is generally an hour.  (Note to take this up with La Jolla Town Council.)  That wonderful feeling of oneness with the universe is totally shot to hell when you see your car and ten others around it with parking tickets.  Yoga is a major revenue source for La Jolla.  We haven't done our first cat-and-cow before the evil meter crones swoop in and mark tires knowing they can make their daily quota on yoga classes alone.  But not to worry.  I remind myself that the goddess Bhuvaneswari is going to get them for this.  She doesn't like to be messed with.  Namaste.

 

Giving Up All Hope of Finding A Knowledgeable Human

["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published Feb. 21, 2013] © 2013 

By my calculations, I spend a third of my time sleeping, a third enjoying retirement, and most of the rest on hold waiting for the next available agent.  I don’t think anyone would argue that automated phone systems are the Techno-Ebola of our time.  But I wouldn’t even mind that much if at the end of it was a Knowledgeable Human Being.

I don’t know where The People Who Actually Know The Answer are but one place they certainly aren’t is at the end of any customer service line.  I try going for the best of three to see if I can get at least two people to give me the same answer, but oftentimes, I have to go for best of seven.  If it’s the visa section of any foreign consulate, the mortgage division of a bank, Medicare, Social Security, or almost anything related to the State of California, you’re pretty much looking at the best of infinity. 

Here’s what I consider the fundamental mystery of our times:  Why is it that no matter how many calls you make in advance, you can only get the right answer to your question after you’ve done it wrong?  That’s when the Actual Knowledgeable Human crawls out of the wood work to inform you, as these recent examples from friends illustrate, that (a) the college credits you were assured would transfer from your former institution to your new one will not (b) the medical procedure the customer service agent confirmed was covered is actually Out of Network, and (c) the address that they gave you to send your first re-fi mortgage payment is actually the old one, incurring $300 in non-negotiable penalties (and a black mark on your credit). 

Not, of course, that the institutions involved will take responsibility for the misinformation of their own employees, even if you have documented exactly whom you spoke with and when, or even recorded the call.  Their mistake?  Your bad. 

A corollary to the Mystery of Only Getting the Right Answer After You’ve Done It Wrong is a phenomenon I call Asking the Unanswerable.  Business journalist Frank Lalli did a brilliant illustration of this in the December 1 New York Times describing his efforts to find out what his blood cancer drug would cost under either a new insurer or Medicare which he was required to transition to come January.  He documented 70 calls to 16 organizations and got estimates from $20 a month to a whopping $17,000 per year.  The most accurate information, he lamented, was that he wouldn’t actually know the cost until he filed his first claim in January after irrevocably committing to a new plan. 

A South African friend who works here and visits her son and grandchildren living in Europe regularly encounters a second corollary to this phenomenon:  Asking the Unanswerable of Ogres. I’d use a different word but my paper won’t let me.  My friend notes that there are not only serious idiots working customer service desks, but some appear to be Satan’s second cousins.  She swears the people at this particular European consulate lie awake nights thinking of diabolical ways to thwart the would-be traveler, for example, invalidating her visa request on the basis that the letter of invitation from her son had to be faxed rather than mailed to the consulate (a requirement never mentioned by the evil customer service troll she’d spoken with at length.)  Only after the letter came in the mail instead of fax did The Crone Who Actually Knows make her malevolent appearance.

So where exactly ARE The People Who Know?  Certainly, as we’ve determined, not interfacing with the general public by any known method of first-line communication.  Where do they live?  And why can’t we get to them the first – or even 15^th – time around? 

Here’s my theory:  The entities who Actually Know are tiny mutant life forms who live in a secret bunker at an Undisclosed Location.   They have been programmed to hide there until such time as a hapless human has made some irrevocable commitment to a well-researched course of action then beam themselves to earth in humanoid form cackling maniacally to reveal The Real Answer.  (But too late for you, Bucko!)  I guess we earthlings must simply accept that certain things fall under the category of Unknowable:  Shakespeare’s precise birthday, certain properties of subatomic particles, the real recipe for Mrs. Field’s cookies.   And above all, the advance knowledge of accurate information. 

New Year's Health Tips I Plan To Ignore

["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published Feb. 7, 2013] © 2013
 

I always think of January as The Attack of the Skinny People, the folks who were posing for their cover shots on every major women’s magazine while the rest of us were scarfing down pumpkin pie, Christmas cookies and potato latkes.   Their results are to be commended, of course, but let me just say that you can save yourself the trouble of buying these post-holiday magazines because despite the glowing write-ups and the before-and-after photos, their success can all be summed in two words:  Eat less.

Of course, a two word article doesn’t sell magazines, so the publications feel compelled to bombard us with health and weight loss tips that range from flat-out idiotic to those of dubious scientific merit, always prefaced with “research suggests…”  Here are some of my favorites gleaned from the January glossies:

“Carry an Altoids container filled with nuts. It fits about 24 almonds – your perfect portion size!”  It also makes the almonds taste like Altoids which means you’ll never eat them.   Definitely a good weight loss trick!

“Put motivating quotes on our fridge, by your bed, and on your calendar!”   Is it OK to tape them  over last year’s?  

“Limit snacks.  Mindless eating can add up to 300 extra calories a day.”  300?  I should be so lucky.  Have these people never heard of Dove Bars? 

“Sip hot water and lemon before breakfast.  It helps detoxify your liver.”  When I want to detoxify my liver, I prefer a large orange juice with a little salt and 2 Advil.  

“Each gram of fiber you eat cancels out seven calories.”  So, like,  these calories never happened?

“Add turmeric to your food.  It can reduce your chances of developing dementia and Alzheimer’s disease.”  Of course, everything you eat will be yellow.   But a small price to pay for not developing…what was that again?

A full page display ad for a weight loss supplement featured before and after photos of both men and women.  Forget the weight loss.  I want the six pack abs and the permanent tan that you get from the product.

Facial wrinkle tip:  “Try to sleep on your back.  If you lie on your side, it causes creasing in the skin.  Over time, it remains etched in there.”  (Source:  Journal of Seriously Spurious Medical Facts?) 

In one weight loss success story, the guy says: “The same feeling I would get from eating a whole pizza and a bottle of wine, I get from running now.”  Sorry, but this guy is clearly a plant from an alien galaxy and should be immediately repatriated with his fellow Klingons.

To sleep better at night:  “Take a bubble bath.”  (Sounds good.)   “Why bubbles?  They form a layer of insulation on top, which keeps the water hot longer.”  Clearly a guy wrote this.  Bubbles, meathead, look pretty, are generally scented, and keep you from having to gaze upon the results of the last ten years’ food felonies.  I mean, duh. 

“Research suggests a 30 minute workout will reduce hot flashes for 24 hours.”  Define “reduce.”  Especially define “research.” 

What’s “In” in 2013:  “Pencil skirts look polished and flatter every body type.”  Pencil skirts look good on pencil-shaped people and make the rest of us look like fermenting pork sausages.  

“Instead of a cheeseburger and fries, have a lean bison burger on whole wheat pita with baked sweet potato fries.”  The magazine alleges the satisfaction is the same (hah!) but the calories are much lower.  News flash:  What makes food satisfying are Vitamins S and G (salt and grease).  And you don’t want to know what Jonathan’s charges for bison.

Still, I have to confess that I’m always a sucker for those insanely healthy recipes that populate magazine and newspaper pages the first week of January.  In the spirit of post-holiday penance, I went for the 99% fat-free turkey meatball recipe made with quinoa instead of breadcrumbs, poached in sodium-free organic marina sauce and served over a mound of whole wheat penne pasta and steamed broccoli.  The second night, the leftover turkey meatballs were carefully rinsed, revitalized in a vat of Classico Italian Sausage pasta sauce and served over linguine.  The leftover broccoli is in a Tupperware container growing a new strain of penicillin.   

I tried, I really did.  But I’m just insanely glad it’s February.

 

*Attack Of The Toddler Terrors

["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published January 24, 2013] © 2013

Over the holidays, it is always our hope to have the company of our four preschool grandchildren. And after they leave, it is always our hope to someday get all of our electronics working again. 

There is something about tiny persons and LCD panels that is just irresistible. In our home, alas, the electronics all seem to be located at perfect toddler eye level.  I always tape covers over the CD player, amplifier, and DVD player, of course, but for the tots this just acts as a flashing neon beacon that there is something Really Neat underneath.  Pretty much everything we listened to on our CD player for weeks after they left was really heavy on the bass.  The lights on the DVD player still blink continuously.

As for the remotes, even Olof, who is an engineer, is sometimes hard put to get them to ever operate a TV again should they be left unattended while the TV is on.  (So many buttons!  So little time!)  The living room light timer is perpetually ten hours off when the tots are in residence casting us into darkness at inopportune times and lighting up the house like a Christmas tree at 3 a.m.

Tragically for us, the electronic touch screen panel on our KitchenAid range is on the front rather than the top.  Exquisitely accessible to someone of the pre-school persuasion is the Options button, which when combined with any single digit between one and seven suddenly makes something that worked before cease to.  For example, Option + 2 turns off the timer bell so that one could, for example, discover that they’ve had one of the back yard sprinkler valves running for seven hours.  

Option + 4, which turns off the Cooking Completion Time bell, is a serious bummer as well. 

Fortunately, you can put the oven control panel in Child Lock mode so that they can’t use it. But you can’t either.  More problematic was the fact that two Thanksgivings in a row, a grandchild took it upon herself to turn off the oven while the turkey was cooking. You walk into the kitchen and instead of the comforting hum of the oven there is an eerie silence and the heart-stopping Black Screen of Death on the touch screen panel.  Has the oven take this extremely inopportune time to crump?  Or was it a stealth toddler operation?  I pressed the On button and the panel (and oven) blessedly sprang to life.  But how long had it been off?  Ten minutes?  Oy, an hour?

Deciding the dishwasher was suddenly on the fritz, I discovered that tiny fingers had simply re-set it to “Rinse and hold.” 

The really odd thing is that we never actually see them do it.  And it’s not like they’re roaming around our small house unattended.   But toddlers seem to have radar for Unattended Electronics upon which they engage in covert attacks.  The Navy Seals could take lessons. 

Realizing three days after the Toddler Invasion had decamped that we had no phone service, we discovered with AT&T’s help that we don’t have three phones but four:  the last one is the small handset on our little-used fax machine that was ever so slightly off the hook.

My computer is in the guest room and should I accidentally leave it up after I’ve checked email, I find that all my desktop icons have been rearranged, my font settings mysteriously microscopic (must ask them how they do this since I can’t change my desktop fonts if I try) and the speakers cranked up to 150 decibels.  I can only wonder what they’ve ordered on Amazon.  

My desk and desk chair, meanwhile, have been elaborately reupholstered with an entire package of Post-It Notes, some with personal “wuv” messages (the author informs me) in the form of Hi-Liter scribbles.  All electronic transgressions are immediately forgiven. 

Ironically, all the grandkids over a year old can actually operate iPhones (to watch videos) and cameras.   At four, our budding-portraitist grandson acquired his own (adult) digital camera with which he shoots away, reviews his photos, and deletes the ones he doesn’t want.  Given his size, it is not surprising that most of his shots are of people’s nether regions.  I have suggested to his mother that he could stage a pre-school retrospective entitled, “My favorite crotches.” 

At Olof’s office Christmas party, he won a Roku 2 as a door prize.  We frankly have no idea what it is, and why it’s better than the Roku 1.   But we have plan:  the next time she’s here, we’re going to ask our three-year-old granddaughter.

 

**Looking For Mr. Calm

["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published January 10, 2013] © 2013

I think I can sum up my husband, Olof’s, and my different styles by the funeral instructions our estate attorney had us write when he set up our trusts.  Mine went on for three pages.  Olof’s were all of six words:  “I don’t care. I’ll be dead.”

 I’ve always found the topic of why people pick the spouses they do endlessly fascinating, and particularly how some "people" (not mentioning any names) try to compensate for their own perceived shortcomings in a spouse.  In one sense, Olof and I couldn’t be more opposite.  He’s a Cal Tech-educated engineer trained in reactor physics.  I read once that some incredible percentage of “Techers” of Olof’s generation would now be diagnosed as having Aspergers.  (The rest would be simply be considered socially maladroit.) 

(As an aside here, my younger son, Henri, always thought Olof was saying “COW Tech” and kept asking him about the animals.  I thought that would be a cute story to send to the alumni news.  Or not.)

Olof also spent ten years as an Air Force pilot happily traversing the world stopping in exotic places to drink beer.  But three of those years involved extremely hazardous flying, requiring nerves of steel.  I mention this because the one thing no one has ever accused me of is having nerves of steel.  I myself have always embraced the creative but hand-wringing anxious wreck branch of the family.

I was always clear I could never be married to someone like me.  We’d work ourselves into a frenzy of catastrophic possibilities, no outcome too implausibly dire.   So it’s no accident that I managed to marry not one, but two husbands, who possessed quintessential calm.  (My first husband was a physician.)   I’ve always hoped that my spouses’ inherent serenity would somehow rub off on me.  Choosing Mr. Calm turned out to be a choice that had ramifications I could never have imagined.

Several years ago we were coming back from the airport after having gone to the Bay area to visit our newborn first grandchild, Elliott.  We were in the second from right lane on I-5 when a very impaired driver in a white Mercedes roared up behind us and slammed into our car in excess of 80 miles per hour, obliterating the entire back end of the car and sending us hurtling toward the low concrete berm of an overpass.  I was sure that at that speed, we were going to go sailing over the side and end up seriously deceased on the freeway 30 feet below.  Several totally diverse but profoundly grateful thoughts flashed through my mind in what I was sure were my final seconds:  first, that I was so incredibly glad that I got to hold Elliot.  Second, that I’d never have to fly Southwest again. 

Olof’s mind, not surprisingly, went in different directions.  Equally possible to the Thelma-and-Louise scenario, he feared that the car would ricochet off the concrete barrier, bounce back into six lanes of fast moving traffic, and be turned into aluminum foil.  Hence he must get the vehicle under control immediately after impact with the berm.  In the nanoseconds I was musing about Southwest, Olof was already calculating the cosine of the vortex of the velocity, factoring in the torque, and of course, adjusting for mass, instantly concluding he must not over-swerve at this speed or he’d roll the car.  The fact that Olof could so quickly formulate a plan (those might not have been his exact calculations) never mind execute it with a clear head astonished me. But then, I guess the Air Force frowns on you panicking and plunging to your death in their 30 million dollar airplane just because the oil light flickers.

I, meanwhile, was doing what I do best in an emergency:  scream.  (We all have to play to our strengths.)

I didn’t think there was any possibility we were going to survive this crash that excised the front end of the car as well.  So when we did, my third grateful thought (filtered through the agony of a broken sternum as sirens wailed in the distance) was:  “Calm husband.  Good choice.” Had it been me driving, see “seriously deceased,” above.

So I’ve always been clear why I picked him.  (Besides being calm, he’s a total sweetheart and quite possibly the most honest guy alive.)  But why did he pick ME?   Well, we both love anchovy pizza, and believe me, that’s not so easy to find.  One might think techno geek looking for outgoing social type but despite the engineer image, he’s actually as social as I am.  On one thing we definitely agree:  we each think we got the better deal, that the other person could have done – nay, deserved – better. 

In the end, maybe that’s all that matters. 

Winston The Wonder Dog Returns: The Script We Know Too Well

["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published December 27, 2012]  © 2012 
 

Winston, our beloved but massively high maintenance grand dog, is back in residence again for one of his prolonged visits to Camp Grammy and Grampy.   My younger son, Henri, and his wife, Erica (Winston’s owners) and my husband, Olof, and I are all besotted with Winston. But we are especially besotted with him when he’s at the other party’s house. 

 

Winston, I should note up front, is wonderfully affectionate (if overly enthusiastic) around people, and is a breed recommended for young families.  In fact, we have not a moment’s concern about him with our young grandchildren.  But he is definitely leash aggressive and has a tendency to charge our front gate when other dogs come by looking not unlike a pit bull on steroids. 

I’ve read on numerous occasions that there are no bad dogs, only bad owners.  How about bad trainers?  Winston has been failed by more alleged animal experts than you can count.  During one of Winston’s lengthier sojourns at our home, I chronicled the saga of our finally hiring a trainer advertised as the Cesar Milan of San Diego who, to my horror, showed up with a shock collar.  (http://www.lajollalight.com/2011/09/21/winston-the-wonder-dog-meets-his-match/)

Over four months, I spent three hours a day dedicated to training Winston and by the time he went back home, he was vastly improved.  But for $200 per hour of dog training and hundreds of hours of my time, I thought he should be at minimum a candidate for canine canonization.  You know:  Lassie,  Rin Tin Tin, Winston.  Alas, even with his behavior collar turned up to Defcon One, nothing will dissuade Winston if a big black dog or small white fluffy one (Winston is a specialist) should cross his path.  Of course, he can’t actually get to them (leash, gate), but he’s willing to die (and/or hurl Grandma face first to the pavement) trying. 

As soon as Olof and I learned that the kids were going back east for Christmas with the other grandparents this year, it was a foregone conclusion we’d end up with Winston for another of his Holidays in La Jolla.  Given Winston’s unpredictable behavior around other dogs, he is not kennel material, unless the fellow guests are all Chihuahuas whom he mysteriously loves.  Olof and I even discussed whether to take the heroic route and just volunteer. I mean, it wasn’t as though we didn’t know the script well. Sure enough:

Act I, Scene 1:   As the kids are about to leave at the end of the Thanksgiving weekend, Henri asks, as if an afterthought:  Oh, by the way, could we take Winston for the week when they are away at Christmas?   One of them (read Erica) could bring Winston down just before they go and another of them (read Erica again) could come down and get him as soon as they return.  It would be ten days max.

Act I, Scene 2: Henri says he knows we know how miserable Winston is if left home alone with merely a dog sitter service to check on him twice a day; he’s such a social animal. (He really is.) 

Act II, Scene 1: Since we’ve said yes (we could swear that neither of us has said yes), if it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience, while they (read Erica) are more than willing to make the (massively inconvenient with two tiny kids) trip down here from L.A. in all that nasty traffic for drop off and another for pick up, six hours each time (we’d genuinely hate to do this to Erica, whom we adore),  it would help them more than we can even fathom if they could just leave Winston here now until After the New Year. (Note indeterminate pickup date.)

Act II, Scene 2:  They’d be our best friends forever. (OK, maybe he didn’t say that.)

Act III, Scene 1:  Going in for the close, Henri goes on to say that they were waiting to see how Olof looked (Olof had some unexpected surgery that went terribly wrong this fall), and they are thrilled to see that he looks absolutely GREAT!   So much better than they could have imagined given his harrowing saga! 

Act III, Scene 2:  Henri and family drive off a short time later leaving us standing in the front yard clutching Winston’s leash and bowl.  “You know, Olof,” I say, “It really wouldn’t have hurt you to act a little more frail and incapacitated.” 

Final Act: Winston, meanwhile, licks my hand. Then takes off like a shot for the gate.

 

*Olof Swears Off Medical Care Forever

["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published December 13, 2012]  © 2012

The older we get, the harder it is for me to get Olof to medical appointments.

Olof maintains this is because at our age, there’s just no good news to be had.  Do they ever say, “Wow, you look so much younger!” he queries?   Or, “You really should be drinking more Scotch?”  No, he says, they just take pains to remind you that you’re one day closer to decrepitude and death.  

I’ve previously written about our primary care doctor, whom we affectionately refer to as Dr. No.  As in no bread, no pasta, no rice, no potatoes, no fun. Dr. No has a personal vendetta against high-glycemic carbs.   It’s the potatoes that are hardest for Olof who is a serious spud man. 

It’s not, of course, that we religiously adhere to this regimen, but it sure sucks the enjoyment out of eating something your doctor insists will kill you. 

“Shouldn’t have eaten that,” Olof will mutter glumly after a rare meal of pasta.  “It’s got troglodytes in it.” 

“Triglycerides, Olof,” I’ll say. He’s got the concept if not the details. 

At this point, Olof refers to a week without white carbs as being “clean and sober.”   Not coincidentally, he has developed what he calls a “food porn” habit.  He closes the door to the bedroom to watch Rachel Ray make baked potatoes with butter and sour cream although he admits he always feels dirty afterwards. 

Anyone who knows Olof knows that he has a strict Do Not Feed the Lions philosophy about medical care.  In his experience, comments of any kind to a medical professional only engender tests or more drugs, or more commonly both.

Hence, Olof goes into Total Deaf-Mute Mode in a doctor’s office.  He’s only there because I’ve bludgeoned him into it.  Dr. No and I talk while Olof sits there looking like he’d rather be watching a twelve hour marathon of feminine hygiene product commercials.  Never have I known a person with a more world-class aversion to medical care.

But sending him alone to a medical appointment is an exercise in futility.  I carefully write out a list of his medications (he has no idea what he’s taking) and a list of questions which I admit are mostly mine.  OK, totally mine.  Both usually evaporate into the ether between our home and the doctor’s office.  And when he gets home we end up having conversations like this:

Inga:  So what was your blood pressure? 

Olof:  How would I know?

Inga:  Um, you were there when she took it?

Olof:  I didn’t ask.  She wants me to take some drug.

Inga:  For what?

Olof:  I don’t know.  She called it into CVS.

Inga:  Well, did you ask about side effects?

Olof:  She said something about calling her if something happened but I can’t remember what.

Still, I have to admit Olof may have a point about medical care.  Recently I strong-armed him into a physical which, just as he feared, showed something that required further tests.  And then more tests.  Followed by, well, more tests.  (Olof’s theory is that our top-of-the-line medical insurance is just a little TOO good.)  Olof missed a ton of work over this and became increasingly surly about it.  Ultimately, it was determined that although he had nothing symptomatic, and in the end, nothing imminently wrong, that given his international business travel schedule to places with questionable medical care, it was strongly recommended that he undergo a minimally-invasive preventative one-hour surgery so pathetically routine that a child could practically do it.  He could even have dinner the same day!  Back to work in two days!  Then he wouldn’t have to worry about ending up in a (statistically unlikely but possible) crisis in some far away country.

I am definitely adding “it’s a simple outpatient procedure” to my list of cautionary phrases, right after “packed flat for easy assembly.”  Through nobody’s fault, including and especially Olof’s, the one-hour procedure deteriorated catastrophically into five, and Olof spent most of the next week at Scripps Memorial sucking ice chips, pushing his on-demand pain pump button and muttering through clenched teeth, “But I wasn’t even sick!”  I think if he hadn’t been tethered to a lot of machinery, he would have fed me into a wood chipper.  Really really slowly.  Suffice to say, I am not currently his favorite person.  This is EXACTLY, he grumbled, 25 painfully-lost pounds and weeks of lost work later, why he avoids medical care. 

But in all things, there is a silver lining.  When he was finally paroled from Scripps, the surgeon recommended a “surgical soft” diet including – yes! oh, yes! - mashed potatoes.  For the first time in a week, Olof actually perked up from the dead.  He looked at me and whispered, “You will never tell Dr. No.”