I told you guys that I’m trying to get in better health, as I don’t like going to doctors and so on. Up to a certain age you may be able to get away with that, but there comes a time when all those medical commercials fit what you’re going through.

Let’s get one thing straight: I don’t avoid doctors out of fear. I avoid them out of principle. Why pay someone to tell you what you already know? “Sir, your cholesterol is made of bacon and regret.” Thanks, Einstein.

But age, that relentless sneak thief, has a way of making those late-night pharmaceutical ads sound less like dystopian fiction and more like a personal biography. “Do you experience… being alive? You may be at risk for… mortality.” Terrifying.

So, when my wife Melissa—who may or may not have ulterior motives involving life insurance—dragged me to get my heart checked, I went. Not because I’m responsible, but because I’d run out of excuses. (“I’m busy” doesn’t fly when she catches you watching Dead Like Me and reruns of old golf classics… between naps.)

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