But We Need The Eggs

 Today's title is the punchline of a favorite Borscht Belt psychiatrist joke: about the man who visits the shrink because he thinks he's a chicken, and the doc says he can cure him...

So last week I had one of my occasional bouts of ennui, or the blues. I'm lucky -- I never get full on depression, unlike SOME members of my crew...but I still don't like it. In my case, it typically lasts a few days, and then lifts.

I first new I was somewhat nuts back in 1982. I had a clear trigger then -- the traumatic death of my father. I spent my senior year in a sort of separate state -- I knew I was in class, for example, but I felt I was looking down on myself in class. I also had my first of what would be lifelong psychosomatic incidents -- I got chest pains.

My friend and mentor Dr. Bob, a Neurology professor, sent me to his young internist, and then a Gables cardiologist. As expected, my 21 year old self was physically fine -- just feeling the same symptoms Dad had at the end. These pains or pressures are kind enough to visit me every few Julys -- near the time when Dad died. The last one was 2017, when I had pressure instead of pain, which my brother Dr. Eric found more concerning, and made me go immediately to his friend Harry in South Miami . Harry was out, but I saw Yale, the senior guy, and his ECG showed my usual variant -- a bundle branch block. It doesn't cause harm, but makes ECGs useless in ruling out major heart issues -- Yale wanted to admit me to South Miami.

I resisted -- it was my birthday -- and so we set up a stress test for the next day. Of course, my great Blue Cross ObamaCare plan said no dice -- they would only pay if I was hospitalized -- and so I paid out of pocket like $3K. Fortunately, as Wifey and I learned right after -- I was fine.

So no chest pains last week -- just ennui -- caused this time by absorbing, like a sponge, a lot of sadness from those closest to me -- ranging from chronic illness to failing elderly mothers, to a dear banker friend fighting Stage IV breast cancer. Oh yeah -- another dear friend's daughter is fighting with her Qanon husband over their child, and I get to be involved in that, too.

Wifey tells me I'm an Empath. I read about it, and I seem to fit the profile. I thought I was doing SO WELL giving much less of a crap about most people, but I guess it's hard for a leopard to change its spots, as the cliche goes.

Luckily, it passed, and I can go ahead with being mostly Mr. Happy go lucky. As the Chairman sang: That's life.

Meanwhile, Saturday we helped Jonathan's Dad and nephew celebrate their 75th and one year old birthdays. D2 and Jonathan hosted a lovely get together -- the counter piled high with Bagel Barn Ashkenazi deliciousness. We agreed it was a good practice run for T Day -- on account of Wifey not wanting to hurt her back again by hosting, even with full caterers and party supply folks -- D2 and Jonathan have the job this year -- I'm paying, of course.

T Day is my favorite, and this year promises to be one with adorable kids running around, Betsy the enormous puppy enjoying any scraps that fall, and of course some football (the REAL kind) on TV.

Before that, D2 and Jonathan and Wifey and I are off to the City of Lost Angels for dear family friend Amanda's wedding. Jonathan vetoed staying at the wedding hotel -- right next to Skid Row, since Amanda and Daniel are cutting edge and wanted a cool venue. But Jonathan knows LA, and feared his suegra might venture out to a street person mugging -- so we're staying in West Hollywood, a 20 minute Uber ride away.

Turns out Jonathan was correct -- the rehearsal party is two blocks from the hotel, and guests were told "But please don't walk it." We shall not.

We're only staying 2 nights, but I look most forward to it. Amanda found a terrific guy -- like 5th generation Angelino -- I get "really good energy" from him to use the Southern Cal lingo.

We return to D1's 36th birthday, near T Day! Oh my -- how is my daughter nearing middle age? Because I was a child groom! Then T Day, and then in December Little Man turns 5! And Xmas Day, Wifey turns...I am prohibited from ever again mentioning her age, or the fact that she was born during the first Eisenhower Administration. Ha. I was born months after the second one ended, so I'm old as fuh, too.

So may the blues stay away -- I got too much to do -- and I'm not musically talented enough to transfer my angst to music...