Quality of Life

It started with world-renowned reality show star and pilates instructor Patty Faynor. On Good Morning America in the year 2027, she sat down and announced to a skeptical crowd that she had found The Perfect Diet.

The diet itself was nothing special: a combination of chicken breast, broccoli, and eggs, this last of which my grandparents tell me used to be very controversial. On one hand they were the hearty fare of salt-of-the-earth farmers, but on the other, something about cholesterol. Some, always eager for a new health craze to latch onto, tried the diet as described by Miss Faynor, but most gave it up just as quickly as any other fad diet, perhaps quicker, due to the fact that it consisted of literally three foods, which became boring very quick. No more ado was made about it for the next forty years, until Patty Faynor turned one hundred and ten and the network had her back.

"I thought, big deal, right? There are plenty of old people! 110 isn't even Guinness Book standard. Snooze!" my Grandma Olivia recounted to me. "But Gerry, that was before I saw her. When she came on the same show forty years later, she looked like she hadn't aged a day. In fact, she looked twenty years younger, and she moved like it, too. It was unbelievable. You won't understand, of course, you don't know any different, but back then, you looked at the average 80-year-old and thought, poor sap, is there any point to you anymore?"

Grandma Olivia recently died at the ripe age of one hundred and forty, young by today's standards. "I got my start too late!" she liked to say, but she didn't appear too upset about it. The fact that she could still walk her allotted thirty minutes per day to attain her ideal heart rate on her basement treadmill was more than she had imagined for herself at 140. When I asked what she had imagined for herself, she chuckled and said, "A dirt nap!" When I asked my dad what she meant by this he shuddered. "She means the 'd' word, Ger."

Death. We all thought about it, of course, though the science of avoiding it was the only acceptable way to broach the subject. After Patty's revolutionary diet, scientists fell to work on dissecting what it was that made those three foods alone so profoundly life-altering. From there they moved to other areas of study, like The Perfect Workout routine, and the Perfect Lifestyle, which admittedly is an enormous undertaking. Every year, members of the Quality of Life Foundation conduct studies which citizens are rewarded for participating in. You sign on to take up a new habit to participate in every day for a year, and then on your next physical, they review to see if your LQ has increased any from the prior year. Take a whole group of people doing the same thing and new professional info comes out every year, accompanied by new spazzy headlines: "Cell phones could be decreasing lifespan!" "Peanut Butter is Poison??" "Why you should exercise 20 minutes a day instead of 30!"

The LQ (or Longevity Quotient) estimates a person's lifespan based on current patterns from a simple blood draw. Everyone gets a complimentary one once a year, but some busybodies with a lot of extra cash like to pay for them more frequently. My coworker Samantha gets them every week, constantly performing her own mini-experiments on lifestyle choices. I try to tell her she's not sticking long enough to any one thing to have conclusive results, but she tells me I'm being too negative, that I'm jealous of her.

This last part doesn't even make sense. My LQ last time it was measured was 225, thank you very much, which puts me in the top 5% of the nation, based on last year's statistics. Samantha's is always bouncing sadly between 194 and 198.

I follow The Perfect Diet religiously, as does anyone with half a brain cell. Each new study that comes out, I obey religiously. I ditched my IPhone for a flip even though it was super inconvenient, I exercise for precisely 20 minutes every day, and I'm steering clear of peanut butter until the verdict is in. I spend every minute I can adding minutes to my life. I am the modern definition of a winner.

A high LQ earns you certain privileges. Upon hitting 200 a couple years back, I got myself on the mailing list for private parties held in some of the ritziest locations, at which a bunch of ridiculously youthful looking people stand around and sip non-alcoholic cocktails in moderation.

.

I turned 36 last month and today is my annual physical. In preparation, I have been extra stringent about my diet and exercise. It's a stretch, but I'm hoping to hit 250. 25 points in a year is a lot but if I can get there I'll be approved for a complimentary cruise and a sizable cash bonus. I'm thinking of the woman who currently holds the record for best LQ (361!) and the article I read about her on the absurdly small screen of my flip phone (eye strain not good for LQ!, the back of my brain kept telling me menacingly).

The train slides up to me so quietly that I'm startled out of my musings when the door cracks open letting out a burst of warm air.

Once aboard, I walk to the back where I sit across from a blonde woman reading the latest Health & Beauty magazine. The front cover advertises an interview with the first woman to give birth at one hundred years of age.

"I think she might have bought that baby," I say. The woman looks up at me and scowls a little. She has the look of someone who's been following The Perfect Diet religiously, which might mean it's just her face and not a scowl.

When the train finally whispers down into a stop outside of my doctor's office, I get out with the alacrity of a kid being released from school by the final bell. I trip down the steps, across the sidewalk and in the door.

.

I'm sitting on the doctor’s (Mr. Spock, but not from that ancient tv show, please!) table after my physical. Weight, vision, hearing, all clear and perfect as expected. Wondering why on earth with all the advancements they're always making why they can't get rid of that crunchy paper they line the tables with here. There's a poster hanging across from me that says "Health is a solvable problem!" advertising some of the newest vaccines. I'm reminded uncomfortably of the time a decade ago when I came in for my regular physical and was informed that I had a mild form of the flu. Based on this, my LQ had dropped to a sad 89. "What do I do?" I'd asked, panicked, and Dr. Spock told me not to panic. When people got sick, they could merely take a vaccine ("more like an antidote these days", he said chuckling) and come back later for a revised reading. I had a few points retracted for catching the flu in the first place, which didn't seem exactly fair but I was too busy being overall relieved to argue with it.

Dr. Spock ("just call me Edward, why don't you?") comes back in the room just as I'm considering my growing need to pee. He is frowning.

"What?" I ask a little too desperately, and when he smiles I breath a sigh of relief, only for him to say, "We have a bit of a problem."

"What problem? What's the problem?" I ask, wondering why he's grinning like an idiot.

"Well," he says, "I've just never seen this before. It's really quite fascinating."

I shift on the table, and the paper under me crinkles mockingly.

"Your blood samples," Dr. Spock tells me, "Are giving an LQ reading of fifty."

The number takes a while to sink in.

"But...I'm not sick or anything?" It comes out as more of a question.

"That's the thing," Dr. Spock says, still infuriatingly calm, like he's thoroughly enjoying this whole thing. "You are sick. But it's nothing we've ever seen before. Possibly stress-induced."

"So there's no vaccine is what you're saying." In my mind I can see my cruise, my bonus, my exclusive invites, my social legitimacy, falling away like shitty Temu rhinestones.

"I'm afraid so," Dr. Spock says, not looking afraid at all but insultingly exhilarated. That's the issue with these doctors, I think darkly. They're dying for a challenge. Something new to research. I think of standing up, saying, what am I, a slab of meat?? to Dr. Spock and storming out, but instead I just leave meekly with tears in my eyes. Dr. Spock cheerily tells me they will be in touch with any news on my ‘condition.’

.

I spot an internet cafe a little down the street as I leave the doctor's and head for it. My damned flip phone is a hassle and if I can go look up this issue right away I can start to at least calm myself down. Surely someone on Reddit has had the same thing happen to them.

I take my LQ card out and scan it at the door of the cafe. The light flashes red and an antagonistic buzzing sounds. Some of the people inside look up from their devices at the noise. Of course. My LQ is so low I can't even access the space. I watch them look at me, turn to one another before averting their eyes and going back to their business. Oh, how tragic, I imagine them thinking, this poor leper thinks she can be one of us.

I AM one of you! I want to scream at them. I've stuck to the Perfect Diet, I've done every formula I can do, I've lived a life of zero joy for YEARS!

I'm surprised by the last part. Is that really how I feel? I don't know. All I do know is I have to get out of here, back to the safety of my apartment so I can mope.

My apartment. Shit, shit, SHIT. I imagine they'll give me a month or two, but the application process stressed the need for an LQ of 120 or higher to live there. It's a luxury complex. I rake my hands down my face and let out an inhuman howl like the creature I now am. On the opposite side of the street, a homeless man looks up at me and smiles toothlessly. I can't abide by this mockery.

.

When I’ve chilled out a little, I mechanically get back on the bus. Two seats down from me a man is applying the new highly-touted Ever-Youthful Skin Serum to his face. I want to punch him.

My phone lights up with a text from Samantha. She's gushing about how her LQ went up to 200 and now she's going to spend her reward bonus on that car she's been eyeing all summer. A lump forms in my throat, and I shut my phone off and stuff it in my pocket where it settles like a scared animal or a tumor. I tip my head against the window and watch the world go by, the pristine streets seamlessly morphing into a less perfect vision, cracked pavement and ugly brick tenements. I am in the process of thinking this is some cruel metaphor for how my life has changed when I realize it's actually because I've completely missed my stop and am headed into the next town over.

Where she lives.

The thought comes to me unbidden and not without guilt. How long has it been, since we parted ways? How long has it been since I stopped answering her texts?

I get off at her stop without thinking about it. I can't think about it too much or I'll chicken out. Chicken, haha, I'm so sick of that shit I could puke. I'm not even sure she lives in the same building anymore. I'm even less sure that she won't shut the door in my face immediately upon seeing me.

Rachel and I used to be roommates in college, but by the end of those four years there was potential living in the space between us for something more. We'd agreed to find an apartment together. On our first mandatory LQ testing of our young lives, I came back with a 150. Rachel got a 65.

After that, things fell apart. I could pretend it wasn't the numbers, but of course it was the numbers. I had a vision for how I wanted my life to look, and Rachel couldn't make the barrier for some of it. She refused to even try, her living habits a kind of half-shouldered shrug, a free-for-all. I'd previously admired the way she didn't care too much, but now it seemed a liability. The gap only widened from there. I became hesitant to introduce new friends to Rachel. I don't want to say I was ashamed of her, but I also don't want to lie.

It's with a certain amount of guilt and a growing urge to flee that I approach the worn red door of her apartment. My heart clenches in my throat when I knock, and she opens it to find me standing there looking like a complete dumbass, lost for words. She looks the same as ever, except she's dyed one red streak in the front of her short hair. It reminds me of Christmas.

"Gerry?" she asks. "What's wrong?"

That's when I lose it, just absolutely go to pieces on her doorstep. She's the only person who could ever look at my stoic resting bitch face and know that something was up when I haven't said a word. I stand there and cry like a fool.

Rachel, to her credit, does not slam the door in my face. She backs up without a word, inviting me inside and I follow her into a cozy little studio space with yellow walls. I sit at the kitchen table. Everything is exactly as I remember it. Rachel leans against the counter and waits to hear what I have to say. Her arms are crossed over her chest and it's impossible to know what she's thinking. Words bubble up one after another and die in my throat- how scared I am, how tired, how slighted I feel- but all I end up saying is, "I'm sorry."

A silence expands between us before Rachel turns away, taking the kettle and putting in on for tea.

"I have some leftover chocolate cake," she says, "Do you want some?"

Chocolate cake. Antithetical to the Perfect Diet. An artery blocker, an LQ killer. Called Devil's Food for a reason.

"Yes," I say, and start to cry again. "God, yes."