I never was one to believe in miracles. Most things can be explained well enough without reference to the supernatural; those remaining are merely temporarily hidden from view, and will be revealed soon enough, or perhaps not soon enough. Still, a couple of recent events — actually, one event and one apparent nonevent — give me pause.

Last week was my annual physical — for 1989; I am nothing if not an effective procrastinator, and this article was actually started three days ago — and for reasons known but to the gods and the Cybernetic Fluid Source Laboratory, or whatever it's called, I seem to be fairly well. For someone who routinely feels lousy, this was a definite surprise. At the very least, I expected to hear that my cholesterol count rivaled that of the Royal Navy in aggregate, my triglycerides appropriate only for someone who ingests M&Ms intravenously, and that passage of a white cell through my crusty blood vessels was a torturous trip on the order of Heart of Darkness writ small. Not so, said the nurse. Which means — what? Obviously, there is some other reason for my general malaise, and eventually it will make its presence known in some ghastly dramatic fashion.

At least, though, I'll be able to dial 911 and get some semblance of emergency help when it does. Again, for reasons yet unfathomed, I have been blessed with another temporary remission: the telemarketers, at least for now, are apparently avoiding me. I reported earlier that some 200 unwanted hucksters were wasting my time and my Caller ID batteries every year; the number has dropped precipitately in the 28 months since then, and indeed in July of this year, I received no solicitations by telephone. I can only conclude that failing to answer the ring does work if you can keep it up for two years or more. As for that nagging medical question, I'll ponder it tomorrow morning over steak and eggs.

The Vent

#112
9 August 1998

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 Copyright © 1998 by Charles G. Hill