This hasn't been my greatest heath year thus far. I had to get a colonoscopy in February, I had a heart attack in April and took a helicopter to Boise and now, they say, I have a lump in the left pectoral region. So, now I've been scheduled for a mammogram. Now, I know what all you gals have to go through. I'm getting a "male manography" test next week. I don't know why these problems are all hitting me at this time all at once except maybe for the fact that I've been on a continuous party since July 1959.
Sure, I've had a little bit too much fun, but If I become Chris Menopause next week and change into a woman, I think Jehovah has gone just a little bit too far. Right now, I'm thinkin' I might be dating myself this summer. If I do, I don't think I'll be faking any headaches, OK?
That's probably the plan now—when you get close to 70, you change sexes. Well, I don't think it's particularly funny. Last week, I bought seven pairs of shoes, watched Oprah reruns every afternoon and worked in the garden. This week, I attended an 8-year-old's birthday party, hung out with the mothers and enrolled in a book club. Next week, I go through the "manogram," open a Macy's account and attend the library tea. I really don't care who won the Mavericks/Heat series, I've lost interest in the Seattle Mariners, I've acquired an aversion to meat and eat only tofu now and I've started worrying about my children's love lives. I like chick flicks! What's happening? Am I now to be called "Dr. Spay?" By August, I'll be using Botox, dyeing my hair and getting a bikini wax. Well, I'm not going to take it! (That last line was delivered in a falsetto—I'm doomed.)
Sure, laugh, wait until it happens to you! Now, leave me alone. I'm going to pour a nice Chablis, scan "Vanity Fair" and chat on the phone until my nails dry. What's the matter with that?
Nice talking to you.