Last Saturday afternoon, I was in my chair lost in some weird reverie, when the phone rang.

“Huh? Whuh?” I yelped, shocked by the sudden intrusion of reality.

I picked up the receiver, said hello, and was greeted by a cheery robot recording.

“Hello,” it said. “This is a message from the office of Dr. Anthony Tramontano.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” I snarled.

I knew the rest of the message would announce my next appointment, which it did. But I’d forgotten it’d be a mere four days hence, which was cutting it far too close.

Cutting what too close, you ask?

The bane of my existence, that’s what.

Young Doctor Tramontano — the bane of my existence? Not at all. At best, he’s a half-bane, or maybe a bane-ito, but when it comes to the Varsity Banes, he’s riding the bench.

So if he isn’t the bane, what is?

My cursed blood pressure, that’s what!

When I label my BP “cursed,” it’s not hyperbole. If anything will drive me either to drink or a padded room in Serenity Acres, it’ll be my BP.

It’s a two-part problem. One part is my BP itself. It’s labile, which means it’s rarely consistent. Sometimes it’s fine; other times it’s off the charts, and it can switch back and forth a bunch of times in the same day.

The second part of the problem is the big one — me.

I know exactly what I should do to keep my BP at a healthy level … and all too often I don’t. Instead, I count on my highly-developed powers of denial to see me through any confrontations with reality. Which it does — until my appointments with YDT.

Don’t get me wrong — I like YDT. Then again, that’s only natural since, simple country lad that I am, I’ve always strived to see the best in people. Besides, he’s bright, he’s conscientious, and even if he doesn’t give a tiddly-doo about my well-being, he fakes it admirably.

No, the thing about YDT is he doesn’t let cut me any slack when it comes to my laxness. If my BP is high, he confronts me. And he does it in a manner as subtle and diplomatic as an offshore shelling from the USS New Jersey. A couple of years ago he opened up with all the 16-inchers.

After going over my charts and numbers — all of which were lousy — he cut to the chase.

“Your blood pressure and weight are both too high,” he said. Then he fired an additional shot, “And they have been for far too long.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I’m gonna start –“

He cut me off mid-lie.

“You’ve got to lose weight and cut back on salt — period.” he said. “And that’s it.”

“That’s it?” I said, hoping he’d tell me the latest research had found the perfect cure for high blood pressure was pizza and cinnamon rolls.

“Look, I could increase your meds,” he said, “but that’s not a real solution.”

“So it’s lose weight and cut back on salt?” I said, hoping I’d somehow misunderstood him.

“‘Fraid so,” he said, looking not the least bit ‘fraid.

I’m here to tell ya, left his office a changed Dope, full of resolve and resolutions. And as opposed to every other time I’ve been full of resolve and resolutions, this time stuck with them. I increased my speed walking to maniacal levels; I deceased my junk food consumption, and I cut way back on salt. And whattaya know — it worked. On my next appointment I’d lost 20 pounds and my BP was excellent. Of course I was delighted. And I wasn’t alone, as I noticed tears of joy welling in YDT’s eyes.

–

Then vs. now

–

But that was then — this is now. Due to a wicked bout of sciatica, my speed walking ground to a halt, and stayed halted for six months. And as my spirits sank, I attempted to revive them with gluttony … and with the predictable results. So I knew in my deconditioned and clogged heart of hearts, this visit with YDT was doomed, if not damned.

My sunny nature turned saturnine. My positive outlook turned defeatest. And with only four days to go till Playtime with Tramontano, I said to hell with it.

I knew my BP and weight were both a mess and frankly, my dear, I didn’t give a damn. I started shoveling in food like the Cossacks had sacked Bloomingdale and were now charging past the Fish and Game Club. And you can bet the food was salty, fatty, sugary — everything but healthy. I’d become so fatalistic that on the morn of my appointment I fortified myself with a breakfast at Cavu that could’ve hardened every artery in the Chinese National Guard. And it was washed down with java aplenty. Then it was off to Showtime at AMC.

First, the weigh-in. I stepped on the scales with such a low GQ (Give-a-Crap Quotient) that I left on my shoes. And lo and behold, I was a mere two pounds above my leanest and meanest fighting weight!

Then BP, EKG and all that.

And after that, I was sitting on the examining table, waiting for the Caduceus Kid, hisself.

After the initial greetings, he looked over my charts and got down to bizness.

“Well,” he said, “everything looks great.”

“Really?” I said.

I was so shocked, I couldn’t follow any of the numbers he recited. I only knew I’d just passed his exam with flying colors.

“Whatever you’re doing,” he said, “just keep doing it.”

“I will,” I said, suddenly thinking of a post-appointment triple-chocolate brownie and a huge cup of joe.

After that, we chatted a bit more. You know, the usual pleasantries, till he said something that caught me up short.

“So,” he said, “have you written any interesting columns lately?’

I was taken aback, but recovered well.

“Hard to say,” I said.

“Why’s that?”

“For one thing, it’s subjective,” I said. “So what I might find interesting, lots of other peeps wouldn’t. Plus something else is effect.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Since I write ’em every week, I honestly can’t keep track of them,” I said. “I finish one, send it in, have the next day off, and after that, I’m trying to come up with my next one.”

“I see,” he said.

“I think it’s kinda like being a doctor,” I said.

“How?” he said.

“Well,” I said, “you see so many patients a day that I’m sure you can’t afford to stay focused on the last one when you’re about to examine the next one.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I can see that.”

“And along the same lines, I’ve got a question for you,” I said.

“What’s that?” he said.

“You made any correct diagnoses lately?” I said.

It was then his turn to be taken aback.

Then I let it drop. No need to rub salt into a would — at least not too much salt.

I hope the good doctor reads this column, cuz if he does, I think he’ll find it interesting.