For years, I’ve met my gastro-enterologist at the clinic where he performs colonoscopies. Every eighteen months or so, I have called his secretary to set up the exam, and to get a prescription for that stuff that you have to drink on the day before. (It used to be disgusting, but isn’t anymore, and I’m not saying that because I got used to it.) I had been to the doctor’s office  — his current office, to which he moved quite a long time ago — only once before today’s meeting, which I scheduled because I wanted to talk to him about my condition in street clothes.

He had been very happy with the results of my last exam, which was why I’d let three and a half years pass before contacting him — an unprecedented gap. He was still so happy today that he encouraged me to wait until next year for another poke. In the meantime, I was to start off every morning with a big bowl of fiber-rich cereal, and I was to keep a diary. A diary of what I leave it to you to figure out.

Not even a prescription! Instead, a free lesson — scandalous that I needed it, at my age and with my history — about the performance of certain strategic muscles. 

Enhancing the quaintness, I couldn’t help noticing that his examining room — he did palpate my belly, with nothing but his hands and a stethoscope — affords an excellent sniper’s-eye view of the front steps of the Plaza Hotel. 

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