Time and Testosterone

I really liked my former doctor and was much upset when he decided to leave town. However, my new doctor is proving even better. In the first place, she’s just as delightful to talk to and, it turns out, is a Ferry Plaza Farmers’ Market maven like me. I look for her every Saturday now at Mrs. Hoffman’s booth.

But she’s more than delightful. She’s really on top of things. At my first appointment with her last month she signed my request for a handicap parking placard but sent me off for some more blood work, speculating that perhaps we could get me walking better so that I didn’t need the placard, a possibility that in my despair I had not even considered.

Well, she’s so overbooked that her next available appointment was not until next Tuesday, but yesterday afternoon I got a call from this pleasant guy who identified himself as her HIV pharmacist. They’d gone over my blood work and decided that my crushing fatigue is the result of a dire shortage of testosterone. I have just picked it up and shall smear myself with it and crouch in the shrubbery, pawing the ground and snorting softly while I await the appropriate passer-by.

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