Yesterday I renewed my expired driver's license. I was worried about the eye exam because of the cataracts, but I passed easily. Believe me, the bar for visual acuity is not set very high.
On my previous license, "hair" was "brown"; this time, it's "gray."
The clerk asked, "Are you willing to be an organ donor?" "Sure," I answered, "but I don't know whether anyone would want my organs."
Surely no one would want my myopic, be-cataracted eyes. Nor my ears (although they would be supplemented with an expensive set of hearing aids at no extra charge). My heart? Well, if it came with a "Use at Own Risk" label and a whole library of erratic ECG printouts. Certainly not my spine, which was a "second" or "factory reject" right from the womb. I would not recommend it even at a severe markdown. My liver — I think I can recommend my liver. It's barely been used and should command a premium. My prostate — now there's a bargain in the making. A prostate is supposed to be the size of a walnut, but mine is more like a potato, perhaps a Yukon Gold — and yet as far as I know it is cancer free. It could be chopped up and transplanted into three or four men.
My best organ, if it's an organ, is definitely my knees, both right and left. I'm at the age where knee-replacement is commonplace, but I have the knees of a twenty-five year old: flexible, functioning, pain-free, even if somewhat prone to hyperextension. Some linebacker who's abused his own would be overjoyed to extend his career with a perfectly wonderful set of knees. Or a basketball player, preferably someone who wants to regain his "hops." Maybe, in someone else's body, my knees could finally win the trophies and renown that they deserve.
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