Joy in Mudville

So I go to the hospital this morning for an MRI, and as always, aware of my status as a role model for the ROW (that’s “Rest of World” for you non-Whartonites), I walk briskly and firmly, breathing deeply, to demonstrate how easy it is to incorporate exercise into every aspect of one’s life. My lungs are burning by the time I get to the lab, but I’m never one to shirk from my duties. As I’m walking, I’m on the lookout for the hot interns, the cute doctors, the steamy liaisons that cause disheveled people to tumble out of supply closets. I peek into a supply closet. No one. Hmm. But then, I see a short pudgy guy in scrubs walking down the hall, and I think, aha, it’s George! McSchlumpy himself! McDreamy, McSteamy, McTallDarkHandsomey can’t be far behind, right? After all, Grey’s Anatomy and other shows of its ilk are a perfect representation of life as we know it, correct? That’s always been MY assumption.

Unfortunately, I continue to see one average person after another, as I get more and more puzzled by this odd development. I start writing the usual letter in my head, with my usual subtlety: “To the good writers of Grey’s Anatomy – Forgive me for asking this, but are you all on crack?” But then it’s time for me to be radiated in a tube, so the letter will have to wait. Later, I do find out the relative good news – that even though I have a 2.9cm, Stage 2, Grade 2 badly-located lump, at least it seems to be a party of one, so far, i.e. the rest of my chest isn’t riddled with cancer. Cause for celebration around these parts.

As I’m waiting to pick up my MRI pictures, I keenly eye everyone walking by, but the only person resembling McSteamy in the slightest is a construction worker. A sign of how upsetting I find this is the fact that I completely disregard my usual ironclad rule about “no iPod unless working out” and listen to some hard-core Neil Diamond – though habits are hard to break, and I jiggle my foot continuously, thus burning off an immense number of calories, more than enough to justify the 24-oz nicely charred steak and double-baked potato I’ll have for dinner - we’re talking at least 400 calories right there. Again, I do this to demonstrate the ease with which you too can rack up those requisite 6-8 hours of training a day, while hewing to a disciplined diet. Simple, really. Swimfan, are you listening? Put DOWN the megabag of Cheez Puffs, babe, and open the curtains. Sitting in a dark living room playing Tour de France Nintendo is no way to go through life. I know you’re at level 2,024, but trust me, it’s for your own good.

Finally, after getting my pictures, I realize with some disgust that I’m getting nowhere with the cute guy thing. Really, is it too much to ask that having cancer MIGHT mean landing a hot date with a cute doctor? Or even being able to ogle cute doctors? Hmph. Who do I see about getting a refund?