Triumph of a heart

Redd Foxx stole a smile from every lazy American when he foretold that "health nuts are going to feel stupid someday, lying in hospitals, dying of nothing," but his wit underscores the by-now universal acceptance that exercise and nutrition prolong life and ward off disease. And they probably do. But there's something else in that equation, as alluded to in one of Saturday's op-eds in the New York Times. Women seem to be tougher, lasting a bit longer than their brothers and husbands. I'm not going to buy that, collectively, they're exercising healthier choices, not when I spy as many female hordes in fast-food lines or Duane Reade queues, patiently waiting to pay for cancer sticks. So why are we so much more likely to flop-over-and-eat-it before our feminine counterparts?

The old-fashioned among us might attribute the difference to macho risk-taking, but probably hasn't watched a single episode of Fear Factor. Chicks do dumb things too. The overly giddy feminist could just chalk it up to XX-superiority (wishful thinking), or God's way of righting years of sexist wrong (I like this better, but mixing God in here makes me uncomfortable). Fine then, but what's bringing on early CAD and cancer? I think the Times' MD-author hit upon something both ancient and fresh when she revealed her dinner guest's reasoning. Letting emotion roil beneath the surface is a great way to maintain body temperature during harsh winters, but I imagine it carries few other benefits.

In my case, two-and-a-half decades' worth of practice has allowed me to project the very image of stoicism, even when Freudian tomes are furiously, frantically being written inside. Despite a culture that's increasingly attempting to convince me it's a bad idea, it's also done me a lot of good - independence and the ability to swallow one's tongue are practical side effects. But there are occasions when I'm sure that with each buried pang, a cancer cell is intricately manufacturing itself out of my forceful, practiced restraint, and swimming its way into the bloodstream, patiently awaiting the day of its victorious siege. Don't get me wrong - I don't believe crying emasculates - my choice is moral in nature, not social. That is, I've always believed I can and should handle any such situation on my own, and this in itself can prove a calming presence for others (Björk's cat is scarily talented in this regard). However, Japanese culture has often championed a similar philosophy, yet consistently has had astounding life expectancy. Either my theory is unequivocally wrong, or the Japanese aren't telling us something. Indeed, they're probably secretly crying it on their mothers' shoulders.