I went to the doctor for my annual check-up and he told me I had “restless leg syndrome.”
“How so?” I asked.
“You shake your legs up and down too much. We have pills for that.”
“When is it a crime to shake my legs up and down? Especially if I’m listening to Justin Bieber?”
“It means you’re maladjusted to society. It’s very common. Most people are maladjusted to society,” he said. “But we have pills for that.”
“What do the pills do?” I asked.
“They keep your legs warm, flabby and lifeless. Just like two little chicken legs, in a vacuum-sealed pack.”
“And this is supposed to be normal?” I asked.
“Of course. The pills are blue and your knees will thank you.”
That sounded too close to a TV commercial for me, so I left the doctor’s office and went to the nearest coffee joint.
“Three grande mochaccinos, please,” I told the clerk. “I’m looking for something to keep my legs moving.”
“You know they have pills for that,” he said.
“Pills for what?” I asked.
“For your legs,” he said. “They have pills to keep them moving. It’s called ‘dead leg syndrome.’”
“What is?” I asked.
“People who can’t move their legs enough. They have pills for it. Little red ones. Take two and your knees’ll be bouncing up and down like a basketball at the NBA playoffs.”
“Just give me the three mochaccinos and keep the change,” I said.
After downing my drinks, I drove home in a highly anxious state. I wasn't sure if it was the caffeine, fear of moving my legs, or the stress of making very difficult pharmaceutical decisions. Either way, I just needed to get home and watch some housewives hurl insults and cocktails at each other on TV.
Later that evening, I sat on the couch, TV off, and looked down at my knees. And they looked up at me. And I looked back at them. Neither of us said anything.
And not one of us moved.