The Lovely Chocolate Mob - By Richard J. Bennett Page 0,11
no big deal. “I don’t mind. I’m an engineer.”
Miss Planter looked up from her clipboard. “An engineer? Are you saying you work for the airlines?”
“No, nothing so dramatic,” I said. “I’m a civil engineer. I work for a company in town called Root and Bonham, which handles contracts from businesses, schools, and some government work, both city and state. I’m a bit of a concrete person, and I handle water run-off.”
Miss Planter looked perplexed, so I continued. “I am the fellow who draws plans for drains and ditches; after a rain, water has to go someplace, and it’s my job to divert it away from companies and their buildings towards lower ground, and make sure it arrives in one of our area rivers or lakes.”
Miss Planter didn’t show it, since she was wearing her poker face, but I’m sure she was a bit disappointed. It was quite a long fall from the airlines to ditches, and there wasn’t much excitement when it came to water run-off.
I felt as though I had to explain more. “My job is a quiet, reliable day-to-day job. It’s fairly routine and sometimes boring, just like me.”
“You’re anything but boring, Mr. Owen. Routine, maybe, but I wouldn’t categorize you as being a run of the mill person.” Strangely enough, this made me feel better.
“How would you categorize me, then?” I asked. I really wanted to know. She’s a healthcare professional, and I could use her professional viewpoints. Besides, I was starting to have respect for her opinion.
“I’d have to say that you’re dependable, Mr. Owen. You haven’t missed a meeting yet, and all your checks have cleared.”
I laughed out loud at this, which surprised Miss Planter, although she seemed glad I was laughing. “It’s good to be appreciated!” I said. “Don’t all your patients pay their bills?”
“That falls into the not-yet-doctor/patient confidentiality arena. I’m afraid I can’t comment on that.” She smiled. “Let’s just say it’s good to see someone who tries to be responsible.”
That was even better to hear. “Thank you Miss Planter.” She said nothing, just looked at her clipboard and smiled.
“How do you see yourself, Mr. Owen? How would you categorize you?”
“How do I see myself? Besides being routine and boring?” Miss Planter looked up.
“Just kidding,” I said. “I see myself as a person who isn’t the same man he was just five short years ago. I used to have energy and darker hair, and more of it! But now I’m changing. I used to be able to eat rocks for breakfast, now I’m finding that I’ve got to be careful what I eat so it doesn’t upset my stomach for the rest of the day. I used to be made of rubber as a young man, plastic as a middle-aged man, and now I feel as though I’m turning into wood. I’m weaker, slower, and not as chipper as I used to be. If my life keeps going like this…”
Miss Planter was peering directly into my eyes. I paused, then continued, “… I don’t think I’m going to like the experience very much,” I said. “Plus, I don’t think I am much to write home about.”
Miss Planter looked at her notes, thought for a moment, then said, “The aging process is quite normal; what you’re going through can be a sort of a minor middle-aged crisis. You’ve started looking at the future with dread; you may not have accomplished all you have wanted to do, you see your energy levels getting lower, and you realize that you’re probably more than half way through with life. That’s not a very appealing outlook, but it’s quite normal for men your age.”
Men my age? Men my age? Did she see me as some kind of grandpa here, a fossil, a relic? I still have most of my teeth and can jog a mile every other day, although I haven’t done it for a few years now. Who do you think you are, you middle-aged mama? Shirley Temple?
“Oh. That’s good to hear,” I said. “So I’m normal, am I?”
“’Normal’ is a word we don’t use much in this business,” Miss Planter said, matter-of-factly. “We prefer the term ‘healthy’. It’s more positive, and when a person hears he’s ‘healthy’ as opposed to just ‘normal,’ it gives him hope.”
“Healthy,” I said out loud. “I could use a little hope; I’ll settle for healthy, then.”
Miss Planter wrote some more on her clipboard. She didn’t look at me when she asked the next question: “Are you married, Mr. Owen?”