Hyper-chondriac (27 page)

She smiled.

The cab honked to bring us back to the airport. I filled up her glass of water and told her I'd see her in March.

On the way out I passed my father in the kitchen and patted his giant stomach with affection and said good-bye. I contemplated throwing out the half gallon of ice cream in the freezer but realized the decision was his.

After dropping Nancy and our luggage off at home, I picked up Kenyon and took him up to the dog park for a quick run. On the drive through the hilly roads, it dawned on me: today I was extremely calm, but who knew what tomorrow would bring? Or, for that matter, ten minutes from now. Life and little things will always gnaw at me and I'll never be immune to stress. There is no permanent solution to what ails me, be it pills, doctors or snake-oil salesmen. But I'm up for the battle. I'll continue yoga, Tai Chi, an Ayurvedic diet, some Craniosacral therapy, and yes, 50 mg of Zoloft for the time being. And I'll no longer do anything that makes me more tense, like lifting a dumbbell. I'll also continue to try new, unconventional remedies if I think there's a slim chance that they'll help, no matter what it costs or how far I have to drive. Like an alcoholic, I need to keep working on myself day by day, minute by minute. I need to keep my hyper-chondria in check.

Then, as I pulled into the dog park, I saw him. Both of them, actually. First the collie, then the owner. The two-legged one cowered when he saw me. It was the guy who had given me the finger and challenged me to a fight. It was the guy I had maniacally sprinted across the dog park for, like a wide receiver going deep for a Michael Vick pass, except I wanted to spike his head, not a ball. It was the guy who, had I had Marty Feldman's eyes, I would have actually been cornea-to-cornea with. It was the guy who first made me aware, accidentally, that medicine would only take me so far. It was the guy who made me realize I needed to hurry up and get calm. Before my Zoloft didn't work anymore. Before nothing in my body worked anymore. Before I was dead.

I was probably the last guy in the world he expected to see. After all, when I had chased him to the dog park, I didn't have a dog. Now, well over a year after our “incident,” we were reunited.

Personally, I could deal with the tension. Besides, as tense as it was, it was only a fraction of what it was like being near my mother. But I'd had enough needless stress. I walked across the grassy field toward the collie owner, and despite the abundance of witnesses nearby he looked terrified. If he'd had Mace on him, he probably would have emptied the entire canister on me. I was about three feet from him and I smiled.

“Hey!” I said.

“What?” His voice trembled.

“I just wanna say I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what happened. I overreacted. I'm sorry.”

I extended my hand for him to shake. After another awkward moment, he shook it. He had a pretty good grip. He probably could've kicked my ass.

I think I'm getting better.

Then, to celebrate, I threw a nearby tennis ball really far for Kenyon. And I tore the radial nerve in my shoulder.

My literary agent, Farley Chase. Without your guidance, encouragement and patience, this book wouldn't be a book.

The innate wisdom of my editor, Peter Borland, who couldn't have been nicer and easier to work with. (Sorry for ending on a preposition, Peter.)

Craig Anton, Jeanine Cornillot, Katherine Eckert, Stan Evans, Rob Forman, Archie Gips, Cynthia Greenburg, Heidi Gutman, Dave Hanson, Lynn Harris, Jonathan Katz, Bonnie Mark, Madeline Martell, Brett Paesel, Sybil Pincus, Rory Rosegarten, Amy Krouse Rosenthal, Rodney Rothman, Mike Royce, Shoe Schuster, Nick Simonds, Grant Taylor and Val Wagner. Thanks for reading, commenting and supporting.

A.J. Jacobs, Peter Griffin and David Granger at
Esquire.
Dana Brown at
Vanity Fair
. Gary Belsky, Neil Janowitz and Brendan O'Connor at
ESPN the Magazine.
Kit Rachlis, Mary Melton and Matt Segal at
Los Angeles
. You're all amazing editors whom I hope to work for until I'm dead.

Harley Tat for hiring me to write thought-bubbles at
Blind Date
. And then—more important—for hiring Nancy a year later or we never would've met.

The world's best yoga teacher, Andrea Marcum. Yes, I know by now I should be able to do a headstand without the wall, but I'm still frightened.

All the doctors who have helped me deal with my neuroses and ailments.

My siblings. Even though our homes and personalities are all over the map, it doesn't feel that way.

My parents for a lifetime of unconditional love. I hope you still speak to me.

My beautiful and super-tolerant wife, Nancy, who makes me laugh at things that used to bug the hell out of me. I hope to repay you by continuing to calm down.

I'd also like to thank the person who invented the acknowledgments page. It's saved me a lot of phone calls.