American Thighs by Jill Conner Browne Read Free Book Online Page A

Robbiechey exclaimed, laughing. “PRISSYMAE did that.” As if THAT explained anything. The doctor’s expression indicated that it did not, in fact, explain anything, and so she went on to say, “PrissyMae’s my baby YAK.” OOOH—now, THAT makes SENSE.
    ??????????
    I suppose it’s a toss-up as to who’s worse about body maintenance—men or women. I do know women who’ve not had a Pap smear or a mammogram in a decade or longer—out of fear that “they will find something.” Wouldn’t let a gray hair go unplucked or undyed, wouldn’t allow the manicure/pedicure schedule to be disrupted—the OUTSIDE of their bodies receives focused and constant care—while the INSIDE could be growing poisonous mushrooms for all they know—as long as it doesn’t SHOW, it doesn’t matter. When I encounter such a creature, I neither mince my words nor sugarcoat them—not even in the lexicon of polite Southern obfuscation is there any nice way to tell them they are STOO-PID.
    But if I did an actual tally of the STOO-PID people I know in regard to health maintenance, I feel pretty confident that the count would be heavily weighted on the male side. MOST women DO go for regular checkups—guys, as a rule, won’t go until something blows up or falls off in their hand. These same men exhibit an almost religious fervor in their determination to change the oil in their cars on a schedule set to an atomic clock. The tires are rotated and balanced with the same zeal. The slightest ding in a door is duly noted and seen to promptly and the tiniest ping in an engine warrants an emergency tow-in to the best mechanic within a five-hundred mile radius. In some cases, I’ve noticed that firearms are likewise maintained with loving attention.
    But a physical? Just because “it’s that time of year” and nothing is festering, swelling, gushing, oozing, throbbing, or hanging by a thread? On a likelihood par with wild monkeys flying out of their hindquarters—which, I suppose, might actually warrant a checkup—but only if there was a constant stream of them—a one-time occurrence would, immediately upon cessation, be dismissed as inconsequential and never mentioned againexcept as needed for a beer-driven display of one-upmanship with his buddies—as in, “Oh, yeah? Well, one time I had wild monkeys come flyin’ outta MY ass…” and so on, as some sort of testament to his male stalwartness. (I can’t believe spell-check didn’t flag that word—do you suppose it really is one?)
    Anyway, I DO know ONE guy who was somehow persuaded to get a full, comprehensive checkup—INCLUDING a visit to a dermatologist to have all his skin examined and explored, in search of any parts that might need to be removed. And it’s not like he had big patches of skin that were molting or covered with sores or ANYTHING—he just WENT, voluntarily—because It’s The Right Thing To Do. AND, even more unbelievably, he admitted it, in writing, to ME, and so, naturally, I am going to tell YOU all about it.
    This is Jud’s Story.
    Once upon a time, a handsome young man named Jud went to see the dermatologist. Actually, that’s a misstatement. He went to BE SEEN BY the dermatologist. That, in itself, is remarkable, but then it turned out that the doctor was a LADY and he didn’t run or even slink off, never to return. He manned right on up and submitted himself to the VERY thorough examination. You may have noticed this on your own personal body, but in case you haven’t let me tell you—there is SKIN EVERYWHERE andit ALL needs to be looked at—real close—because a Bad Thing can be ANYWHERE. This means that another person (the doctor) will be looking REAL CLOSE at ALL your skin—WITH THE LIGHTS ON. (In my current state of disrepair, I would prefer to have general anesthesia for this exam, but so far