You Gotta Have Heart….
I’m stressin
g out.
Seriously. I’m in the doctor’s office waiting for a cardiac stress test. Fortunately, I’m symptom free, and it’s just a baseline test. But the nurse just shot some kind of liquid into my veins to make my heart race, causing me to stress.
Like I’m not already stressed over Trumpty Dumbty, a fluctuating 401K, RBG’s health, Amazonian fires, and Costco.
Don’t get me wrong, I love Costco. But last week we used a tank of gas to go to Christiana and back to save five dollars on toilet paper. Rationalizing this is stressful.
At Costco we try to ignore anything we can’t use up before going into assisted living. Following our last binge, come the apocalypse, all that will remain will be cockroaches, Cher, and our second humongous jar of Skippy peanut butter.
Having loaded our glut of goodies into the car, we head to WaWa to spend six dollars on ice cubes to protect the lamb chops we got for six dollars off.
Back home, the real stress hits. We cram the fridge and freezer to bursting, but run out of closet and cabinet space to stash the mammoth cases of toilet paper, plastic bags, dinner napkins, and laundry supplies.
“Hey, let’s buy a cabinet for behind the sofa to store all this stuff,” I suggest, knowing full well we are now completely bonkers.
After searching Wayfair and Overstock.com, we realize just how stupid this is, but instead of giving up we go furniture shopping to eye $800 breakfronts. Finally, we hit the Habitat for Humanity thrift store.
Hallelujah! We find a good-looking credenza, creepily matching our living room furniture, for just $125 plus delivery.
So I’m in the doctor’s waiting room, heart racing from injected chemicals, musing over this insanity, knowing I’m prepping for the stress test by stressing over spending money on gas, ice, and furniture for crap’s sake, so I can save 12 bucks.
“Ms. Jacobs, we’re almost ready for you.”
So is the nut house.
“Please drink two cups of water from this cooler before we hook you up to the electrodes.”
I obey. Naturally, by the time I’m flat on my back with the MRI thingy over my head, I have to pee. Added stress.
Then the technician says “Place your left arm over your head, stay still and try not to take deep breaths.” I had no intention of breathing deeply before she said that, but now, I’m desperate to do so. So it’s 15 minutes of struggling not to suck air or scratch my suddenly itchy nose. Stress much?
I finish the test, take a delicious deep breath, and return to the waiting room to pause 45 minutes until the resting heart rate test. Luckily the TV is not on FOX News.
I check my phone. I can read all Facebook posts just fine, but the app will not allow me to comment on anything. Seriously? That’s like fitting me with a muzzle. Resting heart rate, ha!
I poke at the app, furiously trying and failing to add comments. Mega-stress. My only hope is to delete the entire app and reinstall it.
My phone asks “Are you sure you want to delete Facebook and all its contents?”
No! I’m not sure! But I plunge, deleting the entire Facebook app. I immediately reinstall the app, but before I can check if I’m back online or have just deleted a dozen years of my life, I hear “Ms. Jacobs, we are ready for you now.” What resting heart rate? I’ve morphed from simple stress to full-on panic.
Apparently, I survived the test. And while the full results won’t be available for another week, I probably didn’t flunk, as they did not instantly rush me to the cardiac unit at Beebe.
Later, back in the car, I check Facebook and I’m still alive online as well. Whew.
Heart rate resting, I head home, knowing we’ve got plenty of baggies and aluminum foil to last past the 2020 election. And I won’t have to navigate around towering packs of toilet paper like in a hoarder house.
So what if we paid through the nose to house cheap Kleenex? So what if I miss a Facebook posting? Who cares if the EZ Pass tolls were more than I saved on chicken wings? Don’t sweat the small stuff, Jacobs.
As for the big stuff, it’s good to know my heart is pumping like it should. Let’s just hope Justice Ginsburg’s keeps doing the same. ▼
Fay Jacobs is an author of five published memoirs. Her newest is Fried & Convicted: Rehoboth Beach Uncorked. As a humorist, she’s touring with her show Aging Gracelessly: 50 Shades of Fay.