‘Splain it, I should say. But they also make me realize things I didn’t know I needed to know.
I don’t have one. Do you? I mean – truly – I didn’t know I was supposed to have one. But here I stand (actually, I’m sitting…) having just been ordered by the person reading the television commercial: Ask your rheumatologist.
My rheumatologist?
Not even sure who those people are, or what a rheumatologist does. But, Phil Mickelson has one. He’s the star of the commercial, if commercials have stars. He spends his on-camera time talking about how dealing with pain is part of his golf-game. Apparently, Mr Mickelson suffers from what we used to call arthritis. My grandparents probably just called it aches or pains. At some point in my lifetime, it went from simple arthritis to Rheumatoid Arthritis.
Oh, the folks suffering from it never said that. There was no “Gracious, my rheumatoid arthritis is kicking up a touch. Perhaps I’ll have an aspirin.” Nah. It was more like, “Agh. Darned arthritis,” if anything would be said at all. I believe folks of my parent’s generation would have just endured it with minimal complaint.
Times were different then.
Now, in our age of gotta-have-air-conditioning-or-I-might-die, and our increasingly abbreviated speech, that old ailment is just too long to be spoken. Rheumatoid arthritis is now: RA. Our mouths just don’t work like those of previous generations. We can’t say things like “medication.” Our dogs take pet “meds.” I suppose we humans do too. If I’d had my “meds” I probably would not be writing this blog. Blog. Used to be a “web log,” but that took too long to say, so it was shortened to “blog.” That’s okay, I guess.
‘Kay with you? (Saved a full syllable there. Okay?)
You know when to be taking your meds, by taking your temp. That’s the thing that used to be “temperature” but it was just too difficult to voice. Temp. Meds. RA.
As a kid, I suffered the effects of asthma. Of course, if it recurs at this point of my life, I’ll need meds for A. Two syllables are just one too many.
Another question-posing commercial asks about your financial “number.” People are seen walking around with a large red number in their hands. There are no three or four digit numbers in any of the commercials. I’m not sure there are even any six digit figures. What is the number? It’s the amount of money we should have salted away for retirement. Not a hundred-thousand dollars. Not eight-hundred-thousand dollars.
The commercials all show actors carrying around one-million-dollar-plus retirement numbers. That’s the amount we’re supposed to have stuffed inside the mattress over time to take care of bills in our golden years.
Regrettably, my golden years will be closer to fool’s-golden. Somewhere along the line I failed to stash away a big enough percentage to have that Sweet-Million set back for the post-work good life.
Of course, based on the today’s pared-down style, I’m just keeping with the times. When the RA creeps up on me, I’ll just take a hard-earned D and buy an A. (D: dollar. A: Aspirin, for those of you my age. The rest of you already knew that, I know.) I don’t have a million set back, but I have the abbreviated version. The Really-Abbreviated-Version.
And, of course, when I feel the pain of RA, I’ll consult him or her. You know…
My rheumatologist.
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McHuston
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Rose District
122 South Main Street, Broken Arrow OK!
