Modern science seems to have accomplished the once inconceivable: it has been demonstrated that I do indeed have a heart. This after an afternoon of painful contortions on an echocardiogram table and unaccustomed exertions on a treadmill.

My newly discovered organ broke on the subway home, however, as I witnessed the conversation of a son (a guy my age) trying desperately to impress his father, who did not, in fact, look particularly impressed.

Later, in the vitamin store, my battered ticker caused my blood to boil as I waited behind a woman with hair like Medusa who complained at length to the cashier about her herbal tinctures being forty percent alcohol, completely oblivious to the fact that the definition of tincture is something that has been diluted in alcohol.

Now, I am about to go out to support my dear friend Joe as he tries out for the local gay cheerleading team.

And people thought I did not have a heart.