Frankentoes and Gastronomical Woes
The other night, I was sipping a cocktail at one of our local watering holes, enjoying the unseasonably warm air and the visual delights of early-season shorts. Pale legs were out. T-shirts clung to gym-forgotten torsos. Everyone, it seemed, was pushing the summer season—some more successfully than others.
It was a night tailor-made for low-stakes flirtation and high-octane people-watching. The bartender’s light-up nipple rings demanded commentary. So did the guy with Tom Hopper arms straight out of Black Sails (yes, I’ve been bingeing). But instead of trading glances or gossip, the gentlemen around me launched into a roundtable on knee replacements and lumbar support pillows.
When one guy began rhapsodizing about his quest for the perfect probiotic stool softener, I guzzled my drink and made a dramatic pivot toward the bar—anything to escape that conversation without being rude.
Which got me thinking: why do people over 60 so often delight in sharing tales of gastrointestinal turmoil?
Some gerontologists chalk it up to camaraderie—nothing bonds two boomers like a shared colonoscopy tale. Others say it's competition: aging doesn’t dim the urge to one-up. We’ve all been held hostage by a game of Whose Digestive System Betrayed Them More?
But maybe the real reason is simple: storytelling. Aging, after all, is like being enrolled in a never-ending improv class where every bodily quirk becomes a plot twist. A doctor’s visit transforms into a three-act epic, complete with a rotating cast of specialists and mystery symptoms worthy of a Grey’s Anatomy episode.
I’m no exception. Following a recent foot surgery, I became that person. I shamelessly showed off photos of my stitched-up, bruised, metal-pinned toes—Frankenstein meets podiatry. To up the drama, I bought an antique wooden cane with a hidden flask and started telling people that a friend (who shall remain nameless) dropped a glass liter of vodka on my foot, shattering the bones. It’s not true, but it makes for a great story. And when people figure out who “did it,” the whole thing becomes even more hilarious—and weirdly plausible.
Look, we all talk about what’s happening in our lives—whether it’s a bad breakup at twenty, a career crisis at forty, or GERD at sixty. And yes, opening up about health is healthier than bottling it up. But can we please agree on a few ground rules for digestive disclosures?
Let’s try a five-minute time limit. No tummy talk at dinner parties. And definitely none during brunch, unless you’re asking for the oat milk. People are trying to eat. Canapés and colonoscopies do not mix.
That said, there’s no real way to police conversation content. So next time you find yourself listening to someone wax poetic about their irritable bowel, you’ve got options. You can flee. Or you can lean in. Because if nothing else, you’re witnessing something rare and oddly beautiful: a masterclass in the theatrical art of aging.
Youth fades. But a good sciatica story? That’s forever.
