“Listen to your body. It rarely lies,” the experts tell us. Sorry, but I don’t enjoy listening to my body. I can’t stand all the constant complaints, excuses and the undeserved accusations.
Of course I don’t engage in actual verbal conversations with my body parts although Microsoft is probably creating an app right now that will provide them with vocabularies in several languages, making it possible for our joints, organs and bones to nag us more fluently.
I can imagine what it will be like. My right knee would have asked me this morning, “Can’t you feel my spasms? I’ve been talking to Lefty and he agrees, we’ve got to get some real exercise soon or we’ll seize up!”
So I’d decide on a long walk, but around the half-mile point, both feet would start yapping: ”Are you still wearing those cheap sneakers? We’re just getting over the silly flip-flops you wore all summer. The toes told us if you don’t shell out for some decent walking shoes you’re going to get a large painful corn crop.”
My toes, even the pinkies, have always been cranky and mean. They’re quite callous.
One day I’d be reaching up for a top shelf book at the library when my right shoulder would shout, “Ouch! That really hurts! You’d better stick to the lower shelf books and please have me looked at or at least spring for some Advil. And is all that head-scratching necessary? That hurts too, you know!
About then my head would butt in: ”And don’t stoop down to the bottom shelf books either. You know how dizzy it makes me when you stand up fast.”
This kind of talk could really limit my reading selections. Maybe, for instance , I wouldn’t be allowed to read books by some authors whose names begin with S, from George Sands to the Szabo’s.
“Trust your gut,” the experts say, but sometimes my gut gets voted down. I’d be in the frozen dessert section of the supermarket intending to buy some low fat yogurt, but with the new app I’d be second-guessed.
My eyes would cry out, ”Wow! Look at that! a half-price sale on banana split royale ice cream with genuine milk chocolate syrup!”
“Yes, buy that! Buy that!” my salivating mouth would shout, dribbling on my hoody.
“Where am I supposed to put that stuff?” my intruding and protruding stomach will ask.”You’d better talk this over with the gall bladder and the arteries first.” It would be much too difficult to get a consensus of opinion in this type of situation.
I’ll have to end this futuristic report soon. My right wrist, the one with the carpal tunnel problem is reminding me, the old-fashioned way, that it needs a rest and my arthritic thumbs are signaling that if I continue to type, therewillbenospacesbetweenthewordsfromthispointon
Imagine That 