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October 3rd, 2011

bananas are my spinach

I drove quite early to my doctor's office on Swiss Avenue in Dallas. I arrived long before my appointment. I had packed my e-reader for the waiting room time, but did not quickly find it in the backpack I had [uncharacteristically] brought to hold it in. My backpack has many mansions, rather like Heaven, and sometimes a flat thing can go missing within it. . I read instead an issue of the New York Review of Books, which included an article by Garry Kasparov about a Bobby Fischer biography, and an article comparing the slaughter of non-military personnel under Hitler and Stalin. A medical professional walked by with a big smile on her face--one of those "top of the morning", non-specific smiles. A smile can brighten a rather dark world.

My doctor's visit was not particularly revelatory. All my numbers were good except for one number that was lower than the optimum number. I was pleased to see negative results in the testing for diabetes, for high cholesterol and for various and sundry other middle-age hassles. My doctor is a good fellow. He soon dispatched me to have more blood drawn in the little lab in the basement of the building. Later, I'll get to visit some kind of specialist. My hope is that the verdict will be "continue to eat lots of bananas", but time will tell if I live in that particular cartoon planet.

After work, I drove home, dropping a crop of dress shirts off at the dry cleaners for appropriate handling. We dined on baked tilapia and whole wheat pasta. I located my e-reader. We watched television. A bird issued a quick click-like tweet from the crepe myrtle tree when I went out to retrieve the newspaper.