Dear Diary: Let's Get (A) Physical

Thursday, February 24, 2012

Dear Diary:

The day began like any other, which is to say with me crying myself awake.  The tears were the result of my stomach being sad, because I had to fast in preparation for the second part of my physical (a.k.a. confirmation of my anatomical perfection).  As part of a corporate-wide “Be Well” program, employees are incentivized to lead a healthy lifestyle.  Since I was the picture of health, I figured I might as well get compensated.  Two things Damion McCloud doesn’t pass up: free money and getting paid for something I’d do for free (i.e. free money)…oh, and Trident Layers (sponsorship, please). Though the payout is the same, I opted for the full physical versus a simple health screening, because I wanted affirmation that I was perfect from head to toe…and everywhere in between.  Now, to clarify, I’m not yet 40, so when I say “full physical”, I don’t mean the “Shouldn’t you at least ask me my favorite color before you do that?” physical, but rather the “Why am I turning my head?  We’re both adults.  We know what’s happening here.  Look me in the eye.  Stare into my soul.  Let’s get through this awkwardness together.  There’s no shame here. “ physical.

I bounded from my bed to tackle the morn like Tigger ambushing Winnie the Pooh, and like Pooh, the morn never saw it coming.  (Or did it?  Did the morn know it was coming all along?  Did it simply humor me, because it knew that’s what I needed to start my day off right?  Do, I underestimate and underappreciate the role you play in my need for ritual?  Oh well, that’s something to be explored at a later date.  I had a long day of poking and prodding ahead of me.  Time to get pretty.)

I cut on the stereo, queued up the perfect song for the day (Olivia Newton-John’s “Xanadu”.  Did you think I was going to say “Physical”?  Please, that’d just be lazy.  You deserve better than that.  Well, not “deserve” so much as being given a gift.), and headed to the bathroom for some grooming (and excretion, but that’s private and not an image you need.  And yet, there it is.  Don’t worry.  I will replace it with something else.  I didn’t say something pleasant.  Just something else.)  I flipped on the shower and replaced the smell of self-loathing with the smell of Hope, of Freedom, of a New Day’s Possibilities, which, oddly enough, smells a lot like Old Spice.  (“Old Spice, when you want to smell as good as you feel”…Nothing?  No marketing department wants me?  I’m giving you gold here….Gold.)  I stepped out of the shower just as the Ms. Newton-John was finishing her final refrain, “Now, that I’m here…Now, that you’re near…In Xaaa…naaaa…duuuu…”

When I arrived at the Health Center, I was greeted with warm “Good Morning, Mr. McCloud!” (Though I had only been to the corporate Health Center on two occasions for official business, they routinely asked me to come in to help recalibrate their instruments.)  “Please come around back.”

I made my way to the first station where they collected information pertaining to my height, weight, and blood pressure.  My weight seemed a bit high, but that could result from the fact that my pockets were full, I had my shoes on, I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders, and my body’s like steel.  Once that data was collected, I was ushered to one of the examination rooms in the back.

“Take off all of your clothes, except your underwear --” she instructed (if I had a nickel…am I right?).

“Done.”

“--and put-- How did you do that so quickly?”

“I went to an Ivy League school, my parents were both school  teachers who were also putting my brother through school and supporting my sister, and work-study didn’t cover all my expenses…You do the math.”

“Well, it’s always nice to have a skill.  Put this on.  It opens in the back.”

“Not until I’m 40 it doesn’t.  Am I right?  Up top…Nothing?  Okay…I amuse myself…I don’t need affirmation.”

She started out the door, turned back, and gave me a high five.

“That’s what I’m talking about!  Bring it in…No?”

A few moments later, there was a knock at the door.  “Are you decent?”

“I’ll do.”

“I’m Dr. Suchandsuch.  First, I am going to go over your lab results, and then we’ll get to it.  Your numbers are beautiful.  Your BMI is a little high, but that is misleading, because it doesn’t take into account solid muscle mass.  You look to be in pretty good shape.  Do you work out regularly?”

“Yes, I do…and you’re welcome.”

“As for your cholesterol, again, your numbers are beautiful.  Your LDLs, HDLs, QVCs, UTFOs.  Everything looks great.  Your diet must be really good.”

“I watch what I eat.”  Meaning I watch me put whatever is available into my mouth hole.  Anyone who has seen my “diet” knows I eat like a cockroach.  And like the cockroach, it has made me nigh indestructible.

“Your liver, heart, blood…all beautiful numbers.  All perfectly beautiful…”

“I believe it was Camus who said, ‘Perfection is a beauty all its own’, but I don’t speak French, so I could be mistaken.”

“Going to check your eyes now.  Focus on that keyhole across the room.  I am going to turn off the lights and check your eye arteries.”

When she flicked the light switch, the room went dark, two spotlights and a disco ball descended from the ceiling, and music started playing.

“Is that Al Green?” I asked somewhat confused.

“Sorry.  Wrong switch.  That’s for next year’s exam.”

The rest of the checks were pretty standard: Lung capacity? Perfect.  Reflexes?  Cat-like.  Heartbeat?  Like Don Johnson’s 1986 cult-classic by the same name, surprisingly strong.   Then, came time for the “money test”.  The “Let’s look each other square in the eye and take this beautiful journey together” test.

“Do you check yourself regularly in the shower?”

“Sure, let’s call it that.”

“Would you like me to check you?”

“I didn’t get all dressed up just to lean against the wall.  I’m here to dance.”

“May I have this dance?”

“You may.  Did you want me to turn on some Kenny G?”

“What?” she asked as though somewhat confused.

“Nothing.  I’ll just play it in my head.”

“Did you shave ‘Hello, is it me you’re looking for?’ into your pubes?”

“I did.  I was going to go with the ‘Abe Lincoln’ in honor of President’s Day, but without the top hat, it just seemed weird.”

“Is that ‘Corbel’?”

“The font?  Yes, it is.  I was going to go with ‘Book Antiqua’, but that seemed to formal.”

“Stencil or freehand?”

“Freehand.”

“Impressive.  Good penmanship is a lost art.”

“Preacher…choir.”

(Editor’s Note:  The next part of this conversation is entirely true.  Not that the previous parts did not contain an element of truth.  There just may have been some embellishment thrown in for good measure.)

“Well, next year, you will be ready for your prostate exam.”

“Looking forward to that,” I said with a hint of sarcasm.

“Well, I have small hands.  So, I’m the girl for you.”

(An awkward silence fell upon the room as I struggled to process what she just said, while simultaneously trying to scrape that image from my mind’s eye.)

“You can get dressed now, and –“

“Done.”

“How did you do that so quickly?”

“I’ve made some choices that have led to the need to make a quick exit.  Not proud of it…not ashamed of it.”

As we were making our way back to the front desk area, the good doctor turned and asked if they could make a mannequin of me as evidence of my existence since so few believed the embodiment of DaVinci’s  perfect man could exist in Nature.  I informed her that my meeting schedule didn’t allow for such frivolity this day.  I did, however, grant permission for them to frame my results and post them as motivation for all those who enter.  You’re welcome, World.

Cue the music…Seacrest out.

Dear Diary: Is Black History Month Scarring Our Children?

Before I begin, let me state that, as a black man, I’m a fan of Black History Month.  Big fan.  So much so that I have started a grassroots movement of receiving Black History Month gifts.  (Haven’t gotten me anything yet?  Not to worry.  There’s still time. )  My issue is not with the month itself, but how Black History is taught to children.  What are my concerns?  And ruin the surprise?  Read up, Inquiring Minds…

Saturday, February 18^th, 2012

Dear Diary:

The day began like any other.  I awoke on the couch, eyes bleary, television blaring, Bible in one hand, a bottle of Mountain Dew in the other, body covered in fake rose petals left over from my Valentine’s Day re-enactment of “American Beauty”.  Not sure what is more depressing, my loneliness, the fact I hadn’t cleaned my bed in four days, or the fact that I played the part Meena Suvari.   Let’s be clear, I makes one helluva Meena Suvari.  History is fraught with men playing women’s roles:  Shakespeare, Madame Butterfly, Margaret Thatcher.   (Oh, she started out as a woman, but during the final few years of her reign, that was a man-postor.  Look it up…I’ll wait.)

My day, per usual, was packed with planned activities.  I was going to wake up, eat a hearty breakfast of blueberry Belgian waffles, watch “Ghost Rider:  Spirit of Vengeance”, and volunteer at the Virginia Women’s Expo.  The waffles turned into two bananas and three Golden Oreos, and I passed on “Ghost Rider”.  Let’s be honest, the last “Gotta see it before it airs on FX” Nicholas Cage movie was “The Rock”, and that was more about Connery.  I did, however, make it to the Virginia Women’s Expo.  (I’m a giver by nature, and I make it a point not to disappoint the ladies…)

As I walked through the maze that is the Greater Richmond Convention Center in search of the Expo, I began to wonder what I had gotten myself into.  Somehow, though my intentions were pure (pure-ish), I always found a way to get into trouble at these types of events.  I walked into the Expo greeted by the sight of women as far as the eye could see, and since I was wearing my glasses with the binocular lenses (patent-pending), that was pretty darn far.  Not one to be distracted from my appointed duty, I walked down the first aisle in search of the Komen booth.  Fortunately, the booth was halfway down the aisle.  I managed to make it without getting into any trouble.  Dressed in my customary pink polo-style shirt, jeans, and Nike cross-trainers (still looking for a sponsor, makers of the Swoosh…have a lot of your products), I had the look that screamed, “Hey, ladies, come talk to me about your breasts…health…concerns”.  After getting my bearings and establishing my post, I took the opportunity to scan my surroundings.  The Komen / Pink Tie Gala booth was diagonally across from a booth selling lingerie and two booths down from a booth for the Women’s Self-Defense Network.  This formed a triangle of sorts of three of my favorite things: lingerie, women who kick ass, and Galas (i.e. breasts…health…concerns).  Three things brought together effortlessly in Zoe Saldana’s “Colombiana”.  How did the 3 ½ hours play out?  Long story short, don’t try to get the number of a woman surrounded by ex-Marines.

At this time, there are probably those of you who are saying, “Damion, this is a nice story and all, but how does this relate to Black History Month straining race relations?”  To you, I say, hold your proverbial horses (or real horses if you’re lucky enough to own a ranch, or unlucky enough to be Amish), it’s coming.

Two and a half hours into my giving, we decided to call it a day.  Foot traffic had ground to a slow trickle, and the streets were about to run red with circus traffic.  Well, probably not red, but I don’t know the primary color palate of circus-goers.  Since things wound down early, I decided to head down to NC to hang out with my friend Alexis.  Alexis and I had a special friendship.  The kind where she would kick me in the chest to indicate that she wanted her feet rubbed, and I would explain to her that I celebrated Black History Month by having white women (a group of which she was a member) feed me.  Did she get her feet rubbed?  Yes.  Did I get fed?  If by “fed”, you mean having a piece of toast smashed into my face, then the answer is “Yes”.  Who better to have a deep conversation about the state of race-relations in our nation’s schools?

“You look nice,” I said awaiting the return compliment.

“Thank you,” she said.

“And???” I said to myself hoping the hours I’d spent carefully crafting my look hadn’t been for naught.

“I like your sweater,” she said.

“Really?  This old thing?  It was clean…You know, a friend at work gave me a Black History Month gift…Just sayin’.”

“What?”

“I said ‘A friend at work got me a Black History Month gift’.”

“I know what you said; I was asking what she got you.”

“A DVD of ‘The Color Purple’.”

“Is that a tear-jerker?”

“I think so.  I’ve never actually seen it.”  Yes, Black People, I have not seen “The Color Purple”.  Not much of an Oprah fan, and I haven’t been big on Danny Glover since “Iron Eagle 2”.  What’s that?  That was Louis Gossett, Jr?  Well, I still blame Danny Glover for “starring” in “Predator 2”.  You could’ve said “No”, Danny…You could’ve said no…

“A lot of black movies are tear-jerkers,” Alexis stated as she went on to explain her childhood trauma.  “We had to watch ‘Amistad’ at school when I was a kid.”

“You see there,” I started as I entered intellectual-rant mode, “I’ve always thought that the worst thing you can do for race-relations is to make school children watch movies like ‘Roots’ or ‘Amistad’ together.  The black kids end up mad, the white kids feel guilty, and black kids want to beat up the white kids.  Kids don’t know what to do with all of those emotions.  Just a bunch of anger and guilt.”

“Did it make you mad?”

“Heck yeah. (I don’t use foul language around the ladies.)  First, I was sad, because I saw how black people were being treated.  Then, I was mad.  How about you?”

“As a white girl, I always felt bad, and it wasn’t my fault.  I didn’t cause it.  I understand it was a part of our nation’s history, and you don’t want to ignore it, but there’s gotta be a better way.”

“Exactly!  We went to a plantation to look at slave quarters.”

“As a field trip???  That’s just messed up.”

“Like you said, it’s a part of our nation’s history.  I understand what they are trying to do, but…kids?  You walk around looking at slave quarters thinking, ‘Human beings were made to live like this?  This is f’d up!  Dang that!’  It’s why I don’t like boats…or yard work.  Then, you get back on the bus, and the white kids are like, ‘We’re still good, right?  Gonna get on the blacktop tomorrow?  Play a little Duck-Duck-Goose?  Spirited game of Red-rover?  Perhaps, a little Hide and go Seek?  Red light, Green light?  Hmmm?  We all love Red light, Green light.'  Just a lot of unnecessary stress.”

“Same with when they taught us about the Holocaust.  I just felt so sad.”

“Yeah, and when we studied Native Americans, there was the Trail of Tears, blankets covered in smallpox, buying the Isle of Manhattan for glass beads.  By the end of the year, you pretty much succeeded in making every minority group mad at white people.  That’s why, to this day, I go after their women.”

“’That’s why I go after their women’…you’re so stupid,” she said while leaning back and ‘tapping’ me on the chest with her foot.

“Are you serious?  Did we NOT just go through this whole race-relations thing?  You know, it’s still my month.”

“I know.  I know.  It’s your month.  Would you like some more toast?”

“Funny.  You’re lucky we’re friends.  During Women’s History Month, I gets MY feets rubbed.”

“Mmmhmmm…Less talk-y more rub-y.”

I drove back to Richmond that night so as to beat the incoming snow “storm”.  I pulled “Shakira” into the garage, headed upstairs, and fell out on the bed smelling of feet.  “What the--rose petals???  I really need to clean this bed…tomorrow…after the Duke game.”