ADHERENCE

By

John Roberts

It’s four am and I’m wandering around the house
naked, avoiding windows, obsessing about my nipples like an over-the-hill stripper. I’ve tried duct tape, scotch tape, Vaseline, and those little round band aids that vaguely resemble discreet-”Forgive us for poking out but there’s a bit of a draft”- Northern European aureoles. Nothing sticks.

My chest is a gooey mess, tape hanging forlornly from the remnants of hair undenuded by my frantic efforts. The stinging pain, the smell, and the early hour force my groggy neurons to search for a context: tawdry sexual encounter, late night ER encounter involving a defibrillator, vicarious identification with a late night forensic cop show?

None of the above. I’m doing something healthy. One year ago, I’d made a decision -with the comfortable padding of time- to run a marathon, believing the actual day would never arrive when I would have to present my creaky middle aged carcass at the starting line. In the pouring rain. Before sunrise. Yeah, I trained, leaving the house and sucking exhaust on the trail next to the parkway three times a week. But I never went near 26 miles, because inevitably by mile five there were thousands of little Al Pacinos in my back screaming, “Sciatica, Sciatica.” And on occasion after demoralizing occasion some ninety year old guy with legs like beef jerky would come whizzing past like he was having some kind of peak experience; what is Medicare giving these people, anyway?

So the day before the race I went down to pick up my number at the registration table and found myself in line with the running type people. I don’t normally do well when surrounded by a large group of people who are “into” something. “Hey, no kool aid for me, thanks, just passing through, pardon me, Jesus Christ, eat a sandwich buddy, I can see your internal organs through your skin.” Two sticks in short pants are talking about “runner’s nipple” and the importance of affixing medical tape to your man buds to avoid a bloody chafed mess from shirt burn. I’m certain that I already have something in the medicine cabinet to deal with this. Until four am.

Is “runner’s nipple” a potentially fatal affliction? Probably not, but one thing I’ve learned about aging is when I get hurt now I stay hurt. If I was twenty years old and woke up one morning feeling the way I feel now I would call 911 and tell them to burn rubber. Of course I’ve adapted, with the help of over the counter pain killers. Dear Mr. Advil, if your pills came in colors like M&M’s I would feel much better about eating them all day.

I hear myself mumble, “I wonder what time the twenty four hour drug store opens?” When I arrive he woman behind the counter seems nonplussed by my request for medical tape; in fact, a quick glance around the store reveals a smattering of fellow early risers seeking secure binding products. Line efficiency is paramount-small talk is kept to a minimum. The man ahead of me in line returns to his car. He lowers his ear to the trunk and emits a satisfied grunt. I move on.

I’m a little late getting to the starting line; the racers are already trundling down the road like harried flamingos. The starter pats my gut and tells me that if I hurry he’s sure I can catch up. He’s lucky he’s carrying that pistol. I’m in no mood. It’s shaping up to be a long boring day.