An Open Letter To My Heart

Hey,

So, we have an appointment tomorrow at 9:30am for a Stress-Echo-- did you know that? Probably not. Hearts don't have day-planners or PDAs.

I'm really annoyed at you. You know, you haven't done one intelligent thing since you fell in love with Mrs. Apron. Lately, you've been racing, you've been squeezing, you've been painful and discomforting and I don't think I've ever done anything to you. I never played little league, giving some ruddy neanderthal named "Spike" the opportunity to bean you with a fast-ball. When Russell Howard hit me in the chest with his hockey stick on the bus in elementary school, I made sure to pivot to the left so he wouldn't hurt your delicate aorta, because I was always worried you were somewhat of a priss and maybe couldn't handle it.

Well, heart, it's time you knew: you are a priss. And, now, you're being a drama queen, too.

I'm not even twenty-nine and you're behaving like you reside in the barrel chest of a 79-year-old named "Mort" who wears white pants that he refers to as "slacks." I may be an old soul, but I'm no Mort yet. I hope I live to become a Mort, so work with me is all I'm saying.

I'm disappointed in you, heart. I don't ask you to do much: just the same repetitive routine, over and over and over, and you pretty much do it by rote, but now you've started causing a problem and making me feel all weird. I know you'll just blame the brain, but don't play the blame brain game. Don't say that five times fast, either.

So, because I'm disappointed in you, I'm taking you in for a Stress Echocardiogram. Think of it as the cardiac equivalent of being escorted to the principal's office. I'm not happy with your behavior of late, young man. Not happy at all. You'd better smarten up.

Let's hope they don't give you detention.

Or worse.