| "Some Cynical Guy" No. 6:
July 21, 2000
Adventures in Heart Attack Prevention
As a cynical guy, I try to stay away from doctors
unless I'm faced with my own imminent demise. In such extreme cases
a visit to the physician is marginally preferable to death. For
example, if I hadn't checked myself into the emergency room ten
years ago for the removal of my overheated appendix, I'd be talking
to you from the cramped confines of an underground box -- and I'd
probably be suffering from an extreme case of writer's block, not to
mention chronic mildew and crumbling extremities. Corpsehood is
forever, and it's about as much fun as filling out an income tax
return. But generally I avoid doctors as if they were banshees; I'd
rather not know that my own innards are conspiring to seal my doom.
So it was with some reluctance a few weeks ago that I forced myself
to undergo a routine twice-a-decade check-up, just to make sure that
my lease on life wasn't about to expire before the upcoming
presidential election.
I was actually looking forward to the latest
breaking news on my cholesterol, which had popped just above the
borderline 200 mark last time; I expected a gentle drop into the
safe territory of the upper 100s. After all, I had been studiously
minding my fat intake for the past five years, shunning bacon and
pastrami and numerous other forms of mammal meat; I had sliced most
of the cheese and chocolate from my diet; I willingly deprived
myself of french fries, onion rings and other crispy concoctions; I
regarded donuts as an abomination unto my arteries. My avoidance of
fat-suspect dishes became a running joke among my friends. I became
intimately acquainted with the saturated fat content of everything
from M&Ms to granola bars.
And here's the sorry result of all that scrupulous
self-denial: my total cholesterol actually shot UP by 30 points
since my previous exam. That's right -- not only didn't I help my
cause by maintaining a low-fat diet, I effectively BOOSTED my risk
of toppling over from a major cardiac event. It was as if the health
gods were honking my nose and giving me a "wedgie" for
good measure. Mind you, the numbers weren't so ominous that I had to
be put on cholesterol-lowering drugs. That would have been too easy;
I could have relished an occasional sausage pizza, letting the
heroic pharmaceuticals ride to the rescue. But no, I was marooned in
that dismal gray zone where "lifestyle changes" were
mandated. This was insufferable; I refused to spend the rest of my
natural life eating rabbit food. Rabbits live in a state of
continual fear and die young anyway.
I began to envy those favored souls who could
consume whole racks of ribs, buckets of pork fried rice, mountainous
cheeseburgers and gallons of McDonald's milkshakes while walking
away with cholesterol readings in the 140s. Why were they permitted
to savor the robust pleasures of a high-fat diet without damaging
their precious arteries? Had they made a pact with the Devil, or
were they just a renegade breed I refer to as Natural Outlaws? You
know the type: freewheeling spirits who eat what they want, say what
they want and do what they want, including diving from airplanes,
hang-gliding from cliffs, mouthing off to parents and bosses,
smoking unfiltered cigarettes and, of course, eating handfuls of
deep-fried lard just to show off. These folks court disaster at
every turn and live to be 97, while law-abiding chumps like me start
keeling over in middle age. Where's the justice? What's their
secret? How do the rest of us get what they've got?
I have an idea: let's look at the French. Say what
you will about them -- castigate them for their snobbery, their
ingratitude, their artistic and intellectual pretensions, their
unpronounceable language -- the French have a proven genius for
avoiding heart attacks. Gastronomically speaking, they seem to
delight in living on the edge; their diet consists primarily of
butter, cream, eggs, goose liver and ripe cheeses, yet they enjoy
the second-lowest rate of heart disease in the industrialized world.
On top of their suicidal diet, they exercise less than Americans,
smoke more cigarettes and have, on average, higher blood pressure
and cholesterol. So why aren't the bodies piling up in the Champs-Elysees?
Much has been made of the French consumption of
red wine as an antidote to arterial clogging. But I suspect their
mystifying resistance to coronary occlusion goes much deeper than
that single quirk of fortunate bibulation. No, there's something in
the French character that girds them against the inevitable. Could
it be their legendary passion for l'amour? After all, climbing out
of bedroom windows and scrambling across rooftops at the approach of
a cuckolded husband is bound to keep them spry well into their
declining years. Even their language abounds with sexual references;
all their nouns are either male or female, which makes it marginally
more amusing when you're talking about locks and keys, for example.
Just speaking their language on a daily basis, with all the guttural
R's and acrobatic inflections, is bound to dilate the arteries. Any
other clues? How about their mass consumption of snails? Their
penchant for obscure philosophical movements like existentialism and
deconstructionism? The profound influence of Brigitte Bardot on the
national psyche? Still not enough. Did the gods grant them a special
dispensation for recognizing Jerry Lewis as a comic genius?
Doubtful. Then what about their sidewalk cafes and the casual good
life enjoyed in cities and towns throughout the republic? Now the
onion soup is starting to simmer, I think.
Unlike their American cousins, the French have
turned nonchalance into an art. It's a French word, after all; they
should be experts at it by now. They work sane hours, they take time
to play, they dine at leisure, and they don't obsess about getting
their three-year-olds placed in fast-track nursery schools. They're
not constantly en route from Point A to Point B in their daily
travels or their ambitions. They dare to take five-week vacations.
The French, in short, are simply too cool to worry about what
they're eating, and I'm starting to suspect that what we eat can't
harm us unless we fret about it. After all, fear probably raises our
cholesterol more than a wedge of Camembert. So let's don our berets
and gather at our usual table on Boulevard St. Michel. Let's drink
the red wine, spread some cheese on our baguettes and enjoy a creme
caramel while we watch the pretty faces go by. O cholesterol, where
is thy sting?
© 2000 by
Bridget Petrella Media Relations. "Some Cynical Guy" appears here by
permission of the publisher.
"Some Cynical Guy" column archive:
2002
81 -- A Brisk Walk Through the Ruins
80 -- The Fountain of Futility
79 -- Farewell to the Big House
78 -- The Cynical Guy Contemplates Cell Phones
77 -- Rich and Poor in Paradise
76 -- Dead Ducks: A Tale of the Food Chain
75 -- Old Comedians Just Fade Away
74 -- Suburbia Comes to Manayunk
73 -- When Nestlings Won't Leave the Nest
72 -- The Curse of High Standards
71 -- Inside the House of Horrors
70 -- The Post-Yuppie Handbook
69 -- Spring Reflections
68 -- Priestly Perversions
67 -- British Teeth: An Apology
66 -- The Sniffling Snout
65 -- Bullies with Social Skills
64 -- Supermarket Rage
63 -- Is the U.S. Really the Greatest?
62 -- The Holes in Our Armor
61 -- A Breath of Used Air
60 -- The Cynical Guy Has Sex
59 -- Let's Abolish the Seven-Day Week!
2001
58 -- Why Worry About the Future of Books?
57 -- The Friendly Face of Evil
56 -- Why We Live Where We Live
55 -- The Cynical Guy Discovers Talk Radio
54 -- Kite-Flying and Other Crimes
53 -- My Night as a Socialite
52 -- Gardening Is Not for Sissies
51 -- Invaders of the Honeysuckle
50 -- To Be a Cat
49 -- The Upside of Terrorism
48 -- The Vanishing Nerd
47 -- Anger Management for Cynics
46 -- Let's Level the Playing Field for Disadvantaged WASPs
45 -- First Impressions, Lasting Impressions
44 -- Close Encounter with a Go-Getter
43 -- Cheering for a Perennial Loser
42 -- The Cynical Guy Reads the Tabloids
41 -- When Does the Good Part Begin?
40 -- Confessions of an Internet Addict
39 -- The Decline of Punctuation and Civilization
38 -- Oh Baby, What a Nightmare!
37 -- The Cynical Guy Watches 'Xena: Warrior Princess'
36 -- A Night-Stroll into the Void
35 -- In Search of the Elusive Wild Tomato
34 -- Getting in Touch with Your Inner S.O.B.
33 -- The Lure of the Lurid
32 -- Black Tie and Beard Stubble
31 -- In Heaven There Is No Pez
30 -- Did You Make the Forbes Celebrity 100 List?
29 -- Redesigning Mt. Rushmore
28 -- On Listening to Dead Voices
27 -- Selling Your Soul on eBay
26 -- Sympathy for Colonel Klink
25 -- Democratic Celebrities in Exile
24 -- High School Revisited
23 -- A Farewell to Bachelorhood
2000
22 -- Requiem for a Middleweight
21 -- Is There a Gene for Tackiness?
20 -- How the Beautiful People Entertain Themselves
19 -- The Cynical Guy Gets Behind the Wheel
18 -- The Fickle Finger of Fame
17 -- Adventures in Bodybuilding
16 -- Some Don't Like It Hot
15 -- The Cynical Guy Watches Oprah
14 -- Sports Parents: Menace to Society?
13 -- Airfare Is No Fair at All
12 -- There's No Such Thing as 'New and Improved'
11 -- Celtomania!
10 -- The Naked Pate
9 -- Vanishing Act
8 -- Bush vs. Gore: It Could Be Worse
7 -- Who Wants to Be a Survivor?
6 -- Adventures in Heart Attack Prevention
5 -- Where Men Are Men
4 -- Thoughts While Listening to the Car Radio
3 -- History Is HISTORY
2 -- The Great Casino
1 -- Greetings from Your New Cynical Guy
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