I went to the doctor the other day for my annual physical (which I’ve got down to once every two years). The nurse told me my urine looked good. “Well, gee, thank you.” These are the kinds of compliments you get once get past 50, I guess. Not, “you have nice eyes,” or even “I love the way your silver hair sparkles under these fluorescent lights.” Just, “hey, good-looking urine you got there, pops.” Well, I guess you take what you can get.

I really don’t like going to doctors (I suppose most people would say the same, though I think it’s a social activity and source of conversation for some people). Nothing personal against my doctor, of course – she seems nice enough. Better than most I’ve encountered over my years of working (albeit peripherally) in healthcare industry. The only professionals that come close to rivaling the arrogance of physicians are (please forgive me for saying this, Kat) attorneys. And the lawyers aren’t even close (I’ve met many more normal, down-to-earth – or at least pleasant – lawyers than I have doctors – there were some law professors who were real pieces of work though).

Of course, when you’re the patient (as opposed to some worker bee, who, clearly, must be an idiot because otherwise you’d be a doctor, after all), most doctors at least pretend the mere sight of you doesn’t fill them with disdain, which I guess is good enough (just don’t think you’re fooling anybody, ya bastids).

The main problem with doctors of course, is that they’re all a bunch of goddamn perverts (worse than nurses, and that’s saying a lot). You’re lucky if you get to “hi, how ya doin'” before they’re trying to stick their finger up your ass (not judging anybody, if that’s your thing. I just prefer to get to know somebody a little better first).

But, apparently, I’m a man “at that age” (a phrase I’ve truly begun to detest) where these perverts feel justified in snapping on the ol’ glove and poking around. And it seems the doc isn’t content to just feel around up there, but is now clamoring for pictures, because she’s insisting that I get a colonoscopy, for which it seems I’m not only “at” the age, but rather well beyond it.

So now I’ve got to go for a “screening” on Thursday morning, where I assume they’ll ask me all the questions I’ve already answered on the form I already mailed back to them, hand me a gallon jug of some vile concoction designed to make me shit myself inside out, and then charge me (and my insurance company) some ridiculous amount of money to go and sit and wait so some NP can talk to me for two minutes.

So, one day – a vacation day, at that – shot to hell. Though of course that’s the easy part. I’ll be wasting another day eating lime jello and sitting on the toilet (thank goodness they invented laptops and WiFi – I only wish I had room for the PlayStation in there), and another day getting a goddamn roto-rooter shoved up my ass.

Well, I’ll try anything once. But if I don’t have colon cancer, they’re not getting me to do this again.

They want to gradually ease me into a post-retirement life the revolves around doctor’s appointments, invasive medical procedures, and, if I’m lucky, the early bird special at the diner. No good food, though. And no beer. No fun allowed.

Friday will be even worse, unfortunately, as it’s dog #2’s (of three) turn at the vet. Another vacation day down the tubes, but I suppose it’s better than working, and he isn’t due for anything too terrible. I just wish I knew the trick to getting them to get on the scale, because I’m getting a little too old (and they’re all getting a little to big – Friday’s candidate was 85 pounds last year, and he sure as hell hasn’t gotten any smaller) for that shit.

Today was supposed to be a work-from-home day for me, but because life sucks and then you die (after a few years spent rotting in doctor office waiting rooms), the remote connection to my workplace wasn’t working (never fear – as soon as I got here, they fixed it). Once I realized I’d have to go to into the office, I had to hurry up with my coffee and breakfast and shower and all that so I could make it to the bust stop on time. Oh, and did I mention it was about 30 degrees and snowing?

Sometimes, it just doesn’t seem worth it, you know?