Seven

Wheat now gives me diarrea, a sign of advancing metabolic dysfunction not to be ignored if I don´t want to end up playing the slots at our oncology center´s new gambling facility.  My present diet, high in paninis and biscotti, pleases my palate but bombs big-time on a cellular level.  Time to chow down paleo-style: low-carb, no fear of saturated fats, vegetables out the wazoo.

Last December I turned fifty, a particularly sucky age especially for dudes.  The average guy is at the nadir of the happiness bell curve right about fifty. Teenagers think  life is an open road stretching out to infinity.  The over-65 set know it´s not but don´t give a damn.  But fifty blows. Fifty is when you look back over all the fumbled opportunities of life with the dawning realization that there´s probably not enough time left to make good.  So you try to console yourself with a bagel smeared with cream cheese and get diarrea.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………..

All that fretting about the hors d´oerves for the semi-annual overeaters not-so-anonymous awards banquet, and look, brie to spare.  Alfred (his friends called him Alfredo, as in fettucine — not funny) might as well have saved that Xanax. Who knows what perverted, if not actually criminal, shenanigans his pilandering boyfriend and assorted so-called friends were up to this very minute.  He´d need that anxiolytic later and he´d downed his last one in an attack of cheese platter nerves.

 

 

 

 

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