Having reached that stage in life known as post-traumatic-middle-age, I have become acutely aware of changes in dinner conversations. Where we once discussed our children, haute cuisine, politics and our recent trips, our banter has taken a turn for the worse. Now, our focus is on medical matters, more specifically, that colorful topic: symptoms. And though I hate admitting it, we have gone from being scintillating raconteurs to boring whiners brought on by our bouts of physical ailments.
For example, our friend, Ted (names have been changed to protect the neurotic) once regaled us with detailed accounts of Wall Street minutiae. For years, Ted told when to buy and when to sell. Once, we even made a few bucks on Ted's advice to invest in snake placenta oil from Argentina. I never even knew snakes had placentas. Now Ted has put his snake oil aside and wants to talk about his health, which fluctuates daily.