Beware the rise of torpitude.
No, hold on – that’s not right. I’m getting a red line underneath torpitude. I don’t think that word exists. Let me try again.
Beware the rise of torpidity. (Yay! That one works.)
I’m no hypochondriac, let’s get that out of the way. Okay, I can moan and whine with the best of them, but usually I get over myself and get on with the job at hand. But that hasn’t been the case recently. I’ve been torpid (not torpedoed – that’s a different action altogether) and out of sorts. So I did what normal people do when they’re feeling this way: I made an appointment to see Dr. Kelly next Tuesday at the Fairview Health Centre.
I’m not overly concerned about my immediate health; but there is history of diabetes, cancer and heart disease in my family. On the plus side, I have my own hair, most of my own teeth and, to my knowledge, all of my ‘bits’ are working to satisfactory levels.
It’s been well over two years since I last sat in a doctor’s surgery, but I know damn well what to expect. I know what my problems are. I smoke two packs a day, I don’t eat well enough or often enough, and I don’t get adequate rest. It’s going to cost me 50euro for Doc Kelly to tell me to quit the fags, eat little but often – not forgetting to include five-a-day fruit and veg portions – and to go to bed early once in a bloody while. No doubt I’ll be told to indulge in aerobic activity, even if it’s too cold at the moment to make love by the sea, and to drastically cut down on my caffeine habit. But if that’s what it takes to get my mojo back, I’ll do what is necessary.
Otherwise I’ll end up like these guys.
Or worse – this guy.