Good genes and extra bacon

In your face, heart disease.

Years ago, my doctor gave up bothering to check my cholesterol, which when last recorded looked like the kind of SAT score that gets you into an Ivy League college.

“You’re not going to do anything about it, anyway,” the beleaguered sawbones snapped in frustration. “Why should I waste my time?”

“Damn straight,” I replied, having already rejected his advice that I begin taking a cholesterol-reducing drug with side effects that include liver damage (there’s bourbon for that), muscle pain (stacking five cords of firewood produces the same results, but lowers my heating bill, instead), diarrhea, headaches, stomach upsets (see bourbon for all of those) and rashes (I can think of at least five more enjoyable ways to contract skin irritations, including being forced by my wife to go shopping at the mall).

The doc wasn’t ready to quit. “You could do something about your diet,” he said. “And there’s always exercise.”

I gave a derisive snort. Which, I might add, is excellent exercise.

“Could I still eat bacon?” I asked.

“Well,” he said, “it might be all right once in a while.”

“What’s that mean?” I demanded. “It sounds like you’re saying bacon is going to be limited to breakfast.”

It was his turn for the derisive snort. Shortly afterward, he moved to Canada. Like they don’t have bacon there.

Before he left, he could have pointed out that bacon – particularly when eaten at all meals and as part of all courses that aren’t dessert or cocktails – has been linked to an increased risk of cancer. But I’d have countered that, thanks to my genetic makeup, I already have an increased risk of cancer. Unless somebody like an outraged politician or deeply offended journalist that I’ve written something nasty about decides to take me out by violent means, there’s something close to a 100 percent chance I’m eventually going to get some form of fatal cancer. While that’s hardly a comforting thought, it’s preferable to pretending otherwise, which has been known to cause a rash.

As for exercise, I’ve already mentioned stacking wood. Of course, that’s only for a few hours once a year. But who’d want to do it more often?

And I take my three dogs for walks. To the store to buy bacon.

In general, I think more people worry themselves to death over the possibility they’ll have heart attacks or strokes than expire due to their meager intake of double-smoked pork products. And even if that preceding sentence is something I totally made up and has no basis in scientific research, so what? You’ll still be happier if you’re not fretting about your mortality. You’ll be even happier if you occupy the time you would have spent fretting by eating bacon.

Unless you’re a vegetarian. In which case, fretting is a major part of your diet.

It’s not as if I don’t take any steps to keep my heart in good working order. I take aspirin, particularly after a night of overindulgence in bourbon. On average, I suspect my aspirin intake equals or exceeds the one-baby-aspirin-a-day regimen recommended by such prominent health authorities as the companies that make baby aspirin.

I also have a thorough physical exam every year. Or two. Or three. To date, this annoying procedure has turned up no signs of either cancer or heart disease, much to the apparent disappointment of the medical establishment, not to mention the pols and reporters I’ve annoyed.

I have to admit to one healthy-schmealthy activity. Or rather, the lack of an activity. I don’t smoke. I never have (other than a single gag-inducing episode in junior high school and a brief flirtation with cigars – and bad breath – in college). I confess that watching government-sponsored anti-smoking propaganda on TV is almost enough to make me want to take up the filthy habit, heart disease and lung cancer be damned. But then I realize that if I’m going to do something my body finds utterly repugnant, I could eat a salad. It’d be cheaper and it wouldn’t stink up the house nearly as much.

Also, I could put bacon on it.

Al Diamon writes the weekly column Politics & Other Mistakes for several Maine weeklies, including some published by the same company that puts out this rag. He’s also the media critic for Down East magazine’s website. He can be emailed at bacon@herniahill.net. Really.