I SHOULDN’T HAVE HAD A V8

This is the story of how my mid-life crisis landed me in the ER.

A couple of months ago, I decided I ought to be healthier. Or at least lose a few pounds, I aspired. I had done it once before when I lost 18 pounds using the revolutionary philosophy of eating better and exercising more.

I started to realize it was time to give that another try. I had gained back about half the pounds I lost and noticed that my clothes had begun to betray me. This shirt is too tight. Those pants don’t fit right. Mrs. Observer told me I was snoring more, and I noticed that I felt more tired and needed more coffee throughout the day.

Worse yet, I realized that I was 45 and would never be younger again.

So I began running on the treadmill a lot more. I started to watch what I ate, though the donuts that seem to materialize in the Arkansas Times office from thin air taunted me from the depths of their wax paper-lined boxes.

I also developed a new strategy of drinking a tiny can of V8 every morning. It’s got lots of vegetables, the label shouts. Plus anything that tastes geriatric is bound to be healthy, I figured. You can even switch to the spicy version of V8 for a little extra kick during that mid-morning snack.

Then it started.

It was like a hot, itchy fire that began on the back of my neck and spread across my hot, red face. Mrs. Observer said we needed to go to the ER immediately. I’d gotten a blotchy rash a couple of times before, but never like this. The concern in her voice made it obvious enough to me that we ought to take action.

We grabbed a seat in the waiting room as the rash slowly disappeared. (Our concern did not.) We weren’t the only ones waiting. One lady basically told a nurse that she wanted to speak to the manager as if we were sitting in an Olive Garden. I was called back before I found out how that turned out.

Once we were summoned, now doomed to try to explain a rash that had taken up residence in the past tense, they plopped us down in a couple of chairs in the hallway rather than in a room. That was fine by me, since I figured I’d see a doctor sooner there than by waiting for a room.

It turns out it gave us a front-row seat to all the action. “Sir, we’re going to need to shave your groin,” a staff member uttered at one point. Later, a lady roaming the hallway began hollering “I’m drunk,” as she searched for the bathroom. “We know you’re drunk, ma’am,” a hospital staff member said; the job descriptions of nurses and bartenders, after all, bear a far more striking resemblance than we might imagine.

When the doctor came by, he asked me all the appropriate questions and looked me over. He was perplexed. He and I couldn’t come up with any changes in my life that would be associated with the rash and we couldn’t figure out why the thing tends to pop up around mid-morning or early afternoon. He asked me to let him know if I ever figured it out.

I went back to my life, hoping the rash wouldn’t rear its ugly, hot, red head. Begrudgingly, I continued with my diet, exercise and mid-life crisis regimen. The next day, the rash didn’t appear. It must be gone, I figured. I realized that I missed my morning V8 session, so I cracked open a spicy version of the restorative super drink and took a hearty swig — while a big ol’ rash started to spread across my face, of course.