The Day I Ate a Salad

Life is filled with change, sometimes positive and sometimes negative, but we are in constant motion and there is nothing we can really do about it. The only real constant is age. The longer we stay on the planet, the more we are expected to learn, grow, and mature. Then, one day, you reach the age where you mature too much and have to change what you eat, how long you exercise and all of the repercussions that no one wants to hear. There comes a time when you can’t eat like you used to, you can’t drink like you used to, and you are sitting in a doctor’s office getting the news that you would rather not hear.

So, I’m, at the doctor’s office, getting checked out after another year of living. I work long hours. The gym is a three-letter word that is reserved in polite conversation like many four-letter words. The patent area has a window on one side with the blind open. I am sitting on the patient paper, on the patient table, with my legs dangling down, and listening to my doctor on a small three-wheeled stool, which could use a can of WD-40 sprayed on all of its wheels. Seriously. It’s like a set of mice are squeaking every time he rocks back and forth on the stool.

My doctor begins talking, “So.”

He’s an older guy, horn-rim glasses with bifocals, about five-foot-eight, standard-issue white lab coat complete with a pocket protector. Yes. I said, pocket protector. He is looking at a set of charts in a manilla envelope. I can’t see what they are. But, by the expression on his face, they aren’t good statistics.

He continues, “When was the last time you’re been to the gym.”

He pushes forward on the stool, coming closes to hear my answer. The chair goes, “squeak, squeak!”

The nerves on the back of my neck jump to red alert and stay there.

The doctor looks at me, doesn’t blink, and waiting for my answer.

I try to smile, because I am very uncomfortable, and think maybe this is the reason that I usually don’t go to the doctor.

“Well.”, I reply, “What decade is this? I think Obama was president the last time I went to the gym.”

I joke when I get nervous.

He moves back on the stool and it makes more squeaking sounds.

Fingers on a frickin’ chalkboard would be better than the noises coming from this “gosh darn” stool! Damn! I’m sending the guy a bottle of WD-40 for Christmas!

He stands up, places the folder on the counter, looks at me and asks, “May I be honest with you?”

My reply, “No. I’m at the doctor’s office, I didn’t come here to hear honesty. I came here to hear that everything is fine and I am living to a hundred.”

The doctor crosses his arms and says, “Jokes. Seriously?”

I reply, “Yes sir. I am very serious about my jokes.”

He lets out a big sigh, which reads to me that he’s tired of dealing with me, and tries to keep the serious conversation moving forward.

The doctor tries the begin the conversation again, “You have lived your life over the past number of years not caring about what you eat, how much you exercise, or anything else. That’s what your medical records show.”

Trying not to crack jokes, I move my head up and down, to indicate that I am taking his words seriously and listening.

The doctor continues, “There is a point where your heart can not take the abuse you’re putting on it. You’ve been short-circuiting the system by not taking care of yourself. If you can’t make some drastic changes to your health and start exercising, then we won’t be having too many more meetings like this.”

“So. I have to dial back the drinking?”

“That’s the start of it.”

“What else is there?”

“The food. Actually, only consume two thousand calories a day.”

“A day? I eat two thousand calories at the coffee shop by gulping down a Tripple crown latte?”

“Tripple crown latte?”

“Yeah, Take a latte, add some Tripple crown whiskey to numb the effects of the coffee, and have a great day.”

My doctor is not amused and asks, “Haven’t you ever heard of a salad?

“A what?”

“Salad.”

“Is that the thing with the green vegetables that healthy people eat?”

“Yes. Because one day, we want you to be one of those healthy people too.”

It was then, the light hit my eyes, mostly because I was facing a window in which the sun was pouring right om me.

My doctor closed the blinds and restarted the conversation, “All I can do is advise you based on the facts. The fact is that you need to change. Your body can’t keep on taking the stress of your life. It’s up to you to take it from here.”

I thank the doctor for his time, pay the co-pay, and head out the door.

By the time I get in my car and start it up, I was already late for my next appointment. Damn! On the bright side, I didn’t have to hear that squeaky chair! As I am driving to the next meeting, I look at the fast food places lined up with cars perfectly placed at the drive-thru. I think of Leo Gets from the “Lethal Weapon” movies saying his famous line, “They f%^k you in the drive-thru!”.

More importantly, I see all of the happy people leaving the fast-food lanes, with big smiles, as they take the burger (or chicken sandwich) in slo-mo, taking that first bite, moving the food from the center of their mouths to the side so they can enjoy everything about it. Eyes close. Another bite is taken. They are satisfied with their meals. I thought … damn … that was me a few hours ago … now … I have to eat salad! Why me!

Looking at the clock, I noticed that  I was actually running a little early. My stomach is telling me to fill up on something. So, I pull into the supermarket parking lot. I know they have one of those D-I-Y salad bars, which I must partake in.

After parking the car, locking it, and walking into the store I quickly see the D-I-Y salad bar. Calling it a “bar” is a misnomer. This is not a bar where people drink alcoholic beverages to forget their troubles. It is a bunch of refrigerated containers, kept cool by ice packs, and changed over when the contents start to empty. They really should call it something else like the “Vegetable Prison” with the tag line, “Abandon your tastebuds when you enter here” or “If your heart rate is above 180, grab a tray, you’ll be back.”

As I approach the “vegetable prison”, I take notice of all of the people around. Some are filling in their D-I-Y projects, closing the lids, and walking to the cash registers. Others are heading to the D-I-Y soups to get some chili before heading out. I grab a plastic container, start loading up my D-I-Y kit dreaming of slow-cooked roast beef sandwiches, cheeseburgers, french fries and a soda for that extra caffeine kick. Instead of that, I complete my salad with iceberg lettuce, green peppers, eggs, bacon bits, and maybe a few croutons before snapping the lid shut and moving to the cash registers. Iw as at least the tenth person in line, but it was only a fifteen-minute wait to get to the front of it.

At the cashier stand, I move forward at a good pace to the seventeen-year-old pimple-faced teen with blue eyes, red short red hair, and a few freckles on her cheeks, She was about my height, with her back arched slightly from the wear and ear from this job. Eventually, as I approached the front of the line, she weighs the D-I-Y kit and says, “Ten dollars. Please.”

I reply, “What?”

She rolls her eyes, as most seventeen-year-olds do when working their first job, and repeats, “Ten Dollars.”

Ten frickin’ dollars? What the hell is this? My brain thought, “If I stuck with the fast food, not only would I be out of the line by now, but the cost is half of this salad! She gives me a plastic bag, secured at both ends, with a fork, knife, pepper, salt, and a napkin.

I swipe my card, the cashier hands me a receipt, and I take off to my car.

Am I late for the next meeting? By now, Yes, but this is a salad. I can’t just leave it in the car as it will wilt when I am in the next meeting. I get into my car and make a few calls to let them know I am not coming. Then, as I am behind the wheel, I break out the plastic fork from the cashier and start to eat my D-I-Y kit.

From the first bite, something started to happen. It is like a thousand single nutrients entered my body and started energizing it. By the second bite, I started to taste the carrots in the salad. Taste? I haven’t had that sensation in years! This salad tasted … good!

Maybe I was wrong about eating the salad. Across the street from the grocery store was a fast food outlet, with happy customers pouring out of the store and through the drive-thru lanes. I thought for a second, just for a second that maybe by having a salad and getting my tastebuds back, change isn’t so bad after all.