Married women all over America are reading the details of Tim Russert's tragic heart attack with dread. "It could have been my husband," we are all thinking. Who among married women of a certain age doesn't have a husband with an extra tire around his waist? Whose husband doesn't have a family history of heart disease somewhere in the family tree? It could certainly have been me. I mean it could have been Bob.
I've been worried about Bob for decades. In fact, my fear of heart attack lies at the base of almost all of my nagging.
"You have to quit smoking or I won't marry you-- why marry a dead man?" I told him 23 years ago.
"You have to exercise three times a week or you'll die young."
"Don't eat that (fill in the blank). Its not good for you."
"If you don't lose your weight it will kill you."
"Stop yelling--you'll have a heart attack!"
I'm sure it's hard to feel the love in this endless barrage of nagging disguised as health bulletins, but the love is certainly there. And the fact that the nagging has almost no impact doesn't mean that we can stop worrying, or stop nagging.
I heard on the TV at the airport this morning that a man's waist size of over 40 inches is a prime predictor of heart attack. Bob, where's my tape measurer?



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