And now it’s time to face the consequences of too much sugar, generally not-great food choices, way too little exercise as all my free time goes into the column, and — I know this is borderline suicidal — occasionally chugging energy drinks because I’ve always loved the bolt and the buzz and the sheer fuck-off-edness…the old Don Logan thing.
All my life I’ve had an exceptionally strong and resilient constitution. I don’t smoke or drink and have kept my weight more or less in check, and so I’ve lived my life like a relatively unencumbered 37 year-old for the most part. Because I’m a lucky inheritor of strong genes. I’ve felt like an exception to the rule for decades. I don’t get sick or certainly not for extended periods — that happens to others and not me.
But over the last four days I’ve been grappling with news that I have…uhm, a heart issue…screeech! All of a damn sudden I have to hit the brakes on my 37-year-old lifestyle and divorce myself from a general presumption about being more or less bulletproof. I suddenly need to radically healthify the diet and perhaps even have a procedure or two — a plaque-arresting stent and a balloon angioplasty.
All I know is that I feel as healthy as always (okay, not like a 37-year-old but generally like an anything-but-frail, go-for-the-gusto type) but a recent diagnosis begs to differ. I’m not certain that my Medicare + United Health insurance package will cover the stent and the angioplasty but here’s hoping. My dad submitted to the latter in his late 60s; ditto a pair of boomer film journo friendos in the recent past.