Kvetch in the City October 2024

I’m sitting here banging my head against the computer, wondering what I could possibly write about that would not involve saying something political (which would start an argument with way too many acquaintances), saying something unfortunate about my last dating experiences, or delving into a litany of bodily aches and pains. With the high holy holidays approaching at least I have an opportunity to wipe my complaints, sometimes not nice thoughts and worries clean in Synagogue.  

I’m actually laying here, not sitting, not knowing which joint to ice first…though my right knee seems to be winning in the aches and pains category. In the last three weeks since I went to NYC it appears I threw my body into mayhem from walking 18,000 steps a day and going up and down 6 flights, multiple times a day while staying at my son’s tenement building apartment. I’m trying to avoid going to the doctor because if they tell me I need surgery…well, talk about mayhem. I’ve got six jobs I’m juggling on any given day. Though working six jobs feels a lot better than the six dates I went on while in NYC recently…but who’s counting?  

And, if I’m on the subject of counting, none of those dates really did count or amount to anything in the end. As a matter of fact, all they did was make me feel worse. Especially four out of the six dates where the men pretty much ran away from me as fast as they could. Talk about ouch. Maybe I need to ice pack my dating life. Then again, it’s already pretty cold. Is there a dating doctor out there with a cure for a bad dating track record? Or maybe a doctor I could date? My mom always said, “It’s just as easy to marry a doctor.” If that were true, then why didn’t she? Instead, she put the pressure on me, not that I was interested in anyone studying medicine when I was a younger much more attractive version of myself. I was far more interested in the starving artist type, or what appeared to be sexy guitar players. However, now that I’m older and constantly in need of a doctor, I must say, my mom may have been right. I should have married a doctor. Now all I do is spend money on them. 

I have to say, some doctors can be a little strange. This past year my primary care physician retired. I actually liked him; he was not strange at all. He’s not the one I’m referring to. Although I never really knew what he got the big bucks for. All he seemed to do on any given visit was listen to my heartbeat with his stethoscope and then listen to me go on and on. I must say, he did listen to me complain a lot, I give him a lot of credit for that. Not only did he have patients, but he also had patience.  Once, after I went on and on about a panic attack I had worrying that I may die in my condo and nobody would find me for days, he insisted I fill a Zanax prescription. I complied, only to flush it down the toilet. I probably could have used a pill or two, still, the last thing I needed was to get hooked on some addictive medicine, so I flushed it down the toilet. I felt bad about poisoning the water, however, I felt worse potentially poisoning myself. I always try eating well and exercising to cope with anxiety which is why I sometimes end up exercising too much or incorrectly and throwing my muscles and/or joints into convulsions only to find myself once again at the doctor’s office…it’s a vicious cycle apparently. 

Anyway, his retirement forced me to find a new primary care physician, so instead of asking around I just told the nurse to hook me up (not that kind of hook up!) with any doctor taking new patients available in the doctor group that my old physician was a part of.  

Lo and behold, I’m sitting in the exam room at my next annual visit when my unknown and new primary care physician, opens the door to the examine room and I could have sworn on my mother’s grave, it was Billy Bob Thorton. I mean what doctor shows up to examine a patient in a plaid shirt, slacks and boots and scraggly hair? No doctor’s white jacket. He did have a stethoscope around his neck, so I figured this is either really Billy Bob Thorton acting in some streaming series here in Nashville, or my new primary care physician was some eccentric, peculiar kind of doctor.  I kept reminding myself I was in a legitimate doctor’s office so he must be a real and valid physician. When he sent me down for blood tests, it crossed my mind that he might actually show up later wearing my vial of blood around his neck. So, it looks like I’m back to finding a new, old fashioned primary care physician who wears a white coat and has good listening skills.  

Meanwhile, as I lay on my couch, alternating between icing my knee and my hip and thinking I need to find a new doctor, while doing my best to avoid talking to most people and getting into political arguments, and trying to stop thinking mean thoughts after disappointing dates, I realize I am actually looking forward to the High Holy Holidays this year. I need them, big time. Forget my aching body and my little life being out of whack, the world feels like it can totally use some prayers. It feels like I’m sitting on the edge of the abyss sometimes. The world’s problems seem way too much, way too big, way too overwhelming. 

The upcoming holidays remind me I get the chance to focus on forgiveness, changing myself, being a force for good. “Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.” And so with that thought and an icebag on my hip, I say Amen. 

In memory of Hersh, Eden, Carmel, Alexander, Almog, Ori, and all the fallen, may their memory be for a blessing. May all the remaining hostages be released. May the war end.