Drop Dead Healthy by A. Jacobs (books to read to increase intelligence .TXT) 📕

My mole, sadly, isn’t in the shape of a giraffe or spider. Just a regular old spot, about the size and color of a chocolate chip. And unfortunately, instead of inspiring coquettish smiles and fluttering eyelids from ladies of the court, it inspires lingering stares that lie on the border between curious and dismayed.

After a visit to the dermatologist—not the insulting one, a kindly friend of the family named Dr. Eileen Lambroza—I decide to have it removed—along with the mole on my back, which is actually more worrisome to her, since it’s asymmetrical.

A mole—the medical term is “nevus”—is an abnormal clump of skin cells that produce the brownish-black pigment melanin. Caucasian adults each have an average of thirty moles on their bodies. And it’s not a small health problem: More than a million Americans are diagnosed with skin cancer every year. And worldwide, at least fifty thousand die each year of skin cancer that came from moles, according to the World Health Organization.

A few days later, I’m in the office of a plastic surgeon, an Orthodox Jewish man. He’s wearing those glasses with miniature telescopes protruding from the lenses. He studies my mole, before announcing his analysis.

“That thing is the size of Providence!”

Well, at least he chose a midsize city without much suburban sprawl.

The surgery took all of twenty minutes. I couldn’t see what was happening, but I felt a needle prick, heard some emery-board-like scratching, smelled burning skin, and felt thread tugging at my nostril.

The doctor was nice and apparently at the top of his field. He was also talkative. I knew from my research on multitasking that chatting can interfere with performance. So I answered his questions in monosyllables. No, I didn’t speak Polish. Not much happening at work. I felt guilty being terse.

When I got home, Julie was at her desk paying some bills. She looked up. For a few seconds, she peered at me like she was trying to solve a four-dimensional topology problem.

“You got your mole taken off?”

I nodded.

“You didn’t tell me? No warning? No debate?”

I shrugged.

“It’s such a part of you. You’ve had it forty-two years.”

I could see tears welling up. Actual tears. I didn’t expect this much emotion over a hunk of melanin. I got nervous.

“So I should have kept it?”

“No, I’m happy about it. Overwhelmingly happy. I never wanted to say what I thought about it before . . .”

They were tears of relief and surprise, not sadness. Interesting. We’ve been married more than a decade, but Julie’s never brought up my mole, for fear of hurting my feelings. What other secret opinions does she have that she’s too polite to say?

A week later, Dr. Lambroza called with the results of the biopsy. The nose mole was fine. But the one on my back, well . . .

“It was atypical.”

Huh. That doesn’t sound good. Atypical is fine when it comes to movie tastes, but medically, I want to be as dull, boring, and typical as possible.

“It didn’t qualify as cancerous. There weren’t enough atypical features to diagnose it as a melanoma. But it was still atypical. It’s a good thing you’re writing this book and you had a dermatology appointment,” she says.

If I hadn’t caught it, it would probably have turned into cancer in a few years.

There it is, another little wake-up call about mortality. A tiny wake-up call. Not a noble or impressive one. Nothing that would get me a lot of sympathy at the corner bar, but a wake-up call nonetheless. My body is filled with imperfections, and one of them will get me.

Checkup: Month 17

     Weight: 161 (creeping back up)

     “I am grateful for” e-mails exchanged with mother: 27

     Personal record for most superfoods eaten in one meal: 11 (salad with black currants, red peppers, wheat germ, cooked shiitake mushrooms, blueberries, avocados, pomegranate seeds, lentils, mango, flaxseed oil, almonds)

     Trips to the gym this month: 11

Yes, my gym attendance is shameful. My running schedule isn’t much better—three times a week instead of every day at my peak. I need motivation. I’ve realized 80 percent of this year is about motivation. Most health advice can be summed up in five words: Eat less, move more, relax. The question is: How do you do that? That is my struggle.

How do you gag the voice in your head that says, “You don’t have to go to the gym today. There’s always tomorrow. C’mon, my friend, it’s just one plate of curly fries. Yes, just for you!” (My inner voice reminds me of a particularly aggressive rug salesman at a Turkish bazaar.)

Motivation will be next month’s theme.

My friend Charles Duhigg—a reporter for The New York Times—is working on a book about developing good habits. He tells me that one important element is rewarding yourself. So after every workout, I’ve been rewarding myself with ten minutes of the sleazy, lowbrow but highly entertaining gossip site TMZ.com. It’s helpful, as is my photo of Old A.J. But I need more.

Chapter 18

The Heart, Revisited

The Quest for the Perfect Workout

THE SOLUTION TO MY LACKLUSTER workout schedule, I decide, is to mix things up. Try new activities. Feed my short attention span a bit of aerobic variety. Fortunately, the number of workout options is stunning. It reminds me of my year of living biblically, with the hundreds of different denominations, each with fervent believers devoted to their leader.

So I try a bunch. I try a sadistic ballet-yoga-aerobics cocktail called Physique 57, favored by Kelly Ripa. I try plain old yoga. Then I try AntiGravity yoga, where you move through your poses in your own orange, cocoonlike hammock that hangs from the ceiling.

I take a class for new moms (and dads) called “Strollercise,” where I push Zane’s Maclaren stroller through Central Park while jogging, jumping, stretching, and getting stared at. I try CrossFit training, a high-intensity workout in a low-tech gym filled with barbells and medicine balls. Working out to exhaustion is encouraged. CrossFit’s mascot is named Pukey.

A trainer named