I am living the most fortunate of middle class lives. That is to say, though I am mortal and I am constantly buffeted by the implacable universe, I, unlike many people, can afford routine health care and the occasional luxury, despite being retired.

During the past couple of months, I have been bitten unexpectedly, drawing blood. I have been jabbed repeatedly with sharp objects (over twenty times). I have had things forcibly inserted in my ears (by others, and now, daily, by myself) and had people leaning over me and shoving things in my mouth while they told me severely to keep my mouth so wide open that my jaw began to spasm, or instructed me to clench my jaw so hard that I ached for hours afterwards in spite of substantial anesthesia. I had someone shove a thick needle through my deviated septum, too. That was epic.

It was all, except for the bite, voluntary on my part. Even the bite was something I sort of instigated, by taking a stray cat into my home temporarily and allowing her to get into my lap.

I paid thousands of dollars to submit to all of these things, even though health insurance covered some of it.

And none of it is out of the ordinary. This is the kind of stuff we want to put up with, as human beings in a somewhat civilized society. It’s what we demand.

I was not being bled, purged, scourged, or had demons exorcised, mind you. It was all very placid getting rabies treatment in the ER four sessions in a row, getting my septum pierced, being vaccinated against flu and COVID, being fitted for new hearing aids, and getting a dental bridge inserted. Everyone was polite in their nice offices. I had amiable conversations with people who cheerfully broke my physical barriers. And I had the money to pay for the parts that weren’t covered.

But it was all terribly invasive nonetheless, and I plan to tell the massage therapist that when I go today and he asks me what I want worked on.

What with all the helpful health procedures I have been undergoing, and what with living on my savings and Social Security, I can’t really afford a massage, but I decided that unlike everything else I am dutifully undergoing, a monthly massage is actually something kind that I can do for myself. It’s not as necessary as being able to chew food, understand what people are saying, or avoid dying from a preventable disease, but it’s close.

It’s at least as necessary as getting my nose pierced, if it comes to that. Yes, the nose piercing was a kindness I did to myself, even if it involved a searing moment of absolutely breathless pain. It was an indulgence.

I used to say to my husband, when he objected to spending some optional money that would improve our lives, “This is what the money is for,” and he came around to my way of thinking toward the end, when we put an entirely unnecessary bathroom into the first floor so he could die more comfortably.

It was awful when he died, but it wasn’t unnecessarily awful, and that is what the money was for.