My Dear Body,
May I ask what the hell is going on? Why are you betraying me like this? Yes, I understand that skin and bones and organs are not built to last. But is it too much for me to ask that you pump the brake just a little?
After all, we go back a long way. Starting on May 20, 1950, when I was shoved into you. And after a shaky start that included diaper rash and a lazy left eye that caused me to see the faces of people standing behind me, we slowly learned how to coexist and successfully went forward together like Steve Martin and John Candy in Planes, Trains and Automobiles.
That is, until puberty, when you surprised me with acne, a cracking voice, and scruffy tufts of facial hair. And making me dance as if my arms and legs had never been introduced to each other. Yet it was during these years that you showed me how much joy the penis could bring, so all was enthusiastically forgiven.
Then it was my turn to beg forgiveness for the abuse you suffered at my hands from the late 1960s through the first six weeks of the 1980s, when we found out that Robin was pregnant with our first child. The resultant weight loss, weight gain, weight loss, but mostly weight gain due to recreational substance abuse must’ve made for a bumpy ride, and I apologize.
Fatherhood motivated me to do all I could to achieve a fit and healthy you. We started running. Running for the sake of running, as opposed to running to catch a bus. We trained with a group and entered three marathons. And while we didn’t exactly instill the fear of God into any Kenyans, we did manage to complete them all.
And I kept on trying. Remember? Regular doctor and dental checkups. I clipped our nails. Protected our armpits and the ozone by using roll-ons. And never scratched our back with a fork.
There was WeightWatchers, Jenny Craig, Atkins, South Beach, Mediterranean, BistroMD, paleo, no-fat, Nutrisystem, low-fat, alkaline, carnivore, Zone, high-fat, macro, only-fat, and ketogenic diets. We fasted. Juice-cleansed. Even became vegans for three years until we felt we’d strangle the next person who even said the word “soy.”
Even after the kids were grown and out of the house, my maintenance mode kept going because I didn’t want to be one of those grandfathers who came to the Little League games hooked up to an IV drip. So we washed, flossed, and scrubbed all areas that cried out for it. We took our flu shots. Coronavirus shots. And rubbed lotions onto our head in an attempt to stimulate the growth of more hair.
We’ve changed a lot in recent years, and mostly I have come to accept it. Like the noises you make when we stand. The noises you make when we sit. Trying to remember something we should know before I give up and google it. Like I recently did when we struggled to remember President Carter’s first name because Benny just didn’t seem right.
It was my turn to beg forgiveness for the abuse you suffered at my hands from the late 1960s through the first six weeks of the 1980s.
Adjustments have been made and pills are swallowed daily by the dozen. Prescription drugs, over-the-counter vitamins, minerals, plus half a Viagra so you have a better chance of reaching the urinal in restaurant bathrooms during the day. We’ve lowered the bar to the point where, if we wake up and there’s no blood on the pillow, we consider ourselves in the plus column.
So I was under the impression we had established a new standard, until this past Saturday, which is the pressing reason for this missive. When Robin went away for the weekend with our daughters, and we had the place to ourselves. When you used the bathroom, stood up, got dizzy, and tipped over into the bathtub. Where you hurt our shoulder after placing our hands on the bottom of the tub and tried to push into a standing position. Where you then pulled a hamstring trying to drape a leg over the ledge in another attempt to get out. Where I then filled the tub with water in the hope it would buoy you upward so you would eventually spill out onto the floor. Where you leaned back and laid there bobbing like a 200-pound wonton. Where we didn’t have our phone to call someone, anyone, for help. Where we ended up spending the night.
Until I awakened the next morning. Grabbed a leg with what I could’ve sworn were my grandfather’s hands and managed to drape it over the side of the tub, roll out onto the cold tiles, caught a glimpse of us in the mirror trying to stand, noticed the uncanny resemblance with the soldier on the extreme left in that statue of Iwo Jima, exited the bathroom, and sauntered back out into the world like a man who hadn’t just slept in a bathtub.
God knows what future surprises you have in store for us. I’ve seen other men my age confronting indignities that their unraveling bodies have bestowed upon them—including our asthmatic friend Mark Krebs, who now must take a running start to muster a cough—and it’s discouraging, to say the least.
Which is why I would like to negotiate a reprieve of sorts. An immediate halt to our deconstruction for, let’s say, five years. Is that too much to ask? Just five uneventful years. It’s not like I’m asking to live forever. On second thought, I’m more than happy to have that discussion.
Sincerely,
Me
Alan Zweibel, an original Saturday Night Live writer, is the Thurber Prize–winning author of 11 books, including the cultural memoir Laugh Lines: My Life Helping Funny People Be Funnier