(Ever pondered the 'horse' part of 'horse pill?')

Well, it's a brand new year, and already I've learned something new. Understand – when you get to be my age, learning something new is Goal Number Two. (Goal Number One is remembering what you learned in Goal Number Two.)

There's a Goal Number Three, too. I think. It has something to do with not splitting infinitives, or original sin, or bran. One of those. I forget.

That's just the way it goes. At my age, it's just a matter of time before I repeat something I just said, or forget what I wanted to say, or repeat something I just said.

So sometimes I forget. Leave me alone. I'm a camel, not an elephant.

Anyway, here's what I learned this year, so far:  the true definition of the word 'generic.' See, till now, I'd always thought 'generic' meant 'bland,' or it meant 'undistinguished,' or it meant you'd wasted the last half-hour at a party talking to someone researching their thesis on 'Hidden Old Testament References To Ellen DeGeneres.'

Nope. As it turns out, 'generic' — in the medical profession, at least — means 'laughably expensive, and for no apparent reason.' Kind of a synonym for the Department of Energy, really.

And here's how I came to this new-found knowledge. Late last year, at the tailing end of my nineteenth yearly physical, I sat shivering in the doctors' examining room, looking longingly across the room at my street clothes and reflexively massaging a cotton ball. During the previous hour-and-a-half, I had been duly weighed, splayed, pricked, prodded, dabbed, daubed and bled by a steady procession of future physicians, all wearing Dansko clogs and disposable scrub suits saturated with Scooby-Doo characters.

After the appropriate hope-sucking delay … in whatever way that delay is calculated by the Union of Medical Practice Appointment-Overbooking Agents … there came a tap on the door, a whoosh of air, and my doctor dashed in to the examining room, wearing open-toed soiree stilettos, a foul-weather jacket, and gripping a three-barbed marlin lure between her teeth.

As it turned out, I was her last hurdle before she navigated out the Cheyenne Mountain-like "Doctors Only" door to take several well-deserved weeks off, and make a boat payment. Apparently, she'd been steadily segueing into her civilian clothes, one examining room at a time, self-prepping for a dash to the marina.

As she blasted in, I felt a bit under-dressed, given that I was wearing nothing but an over-laundered paper gown and a cotton ball pressed against my ring finger, though I took comfort in knowing that, if I sprinted fast enough, I was mere seconds away from sporting both socks.

But on this day, Doctor Armada had no time for prurience, nor proprieties.

The doc cut straight to the chase. Consulting a chart, she told me she didn't like one of my 'numbers.' She stared at me in an accusing tone of voice, which was pretty sobering, given that I was nearly naked and she was chewing on a honed marlin spike. In the spirit of cooperative fellowship, I scoffed at my numbers and offered to pick a different number, if she'd just let me know which number had fallen out of favor.

But Doc Bimini was already scribbling prescriptions, or maybe a maritime-meal shopping list, and I don't think she heard me.

(To be honest, I had more at stake than simple cooperation — I wanted to get out of there before the Scooby-Doo squad came back for more blood samples. They'd already hit me up for so much plasma that I no longer cast a reflection in the mirror.)

Then my doctor let me in on a little "inside baseball" news:  the prescription drug I'd been taking for several years had been recalled. It seems that the drug company had released some recent research, revealing that taking this particular drug, at this particular dosage, could have "undesirable" consequences.

"Undesirable?" I squirmed.

Recent studies, she explained, showed that some test subjects had developed mildly discomforting symptoms, including headaches, something quite foul that involved the word "leakage," and a sudden manifestation of camel hooves.

I took issue. I pointed out that getting cloven feet is not what normal people would consider "undesirable." Wouldn't you agree? I mean, gassing up your car in the rain is undesirable. Getting an over-cooked fried egg – that's undesirable.

But turning part-way into a leaking dromedary with migraines goes way past "undesirable."

I don't think she heard me.

"We're going to change prescriptions," she announced.

"We?" I thought. "What's with this 'we?' What're you now, my partner?"

"Keep in mind," she went on, avoiding my eyes. "This one isn't generic."

"Hey, Doc," I wondered aloud, "since 'we' are going to switch prescriptions, and 'we' are switching to brand-name drugs, that means 'we' are going to split the brand-name cost, right? Right?"

Silence. No reply.

I don't think she heard me.

So I did what any self-respecting, virile, nearly naked, totally ignored American male would do when in the presence of a wildly successful female authority figure who owns a boat.

I ran away.

With all the hunter-gatherer manliness passed along by my forebears, I tactically positioned the cotton ball and reached for my socks.

Not that it mattered. My allotted time had expired, and the good doctor had to leave if she was going to float her boat before low tide.

On her way out, she told me to make appointments three times a month for my yearly physical, handed me a prescription form filled out in something, possibly Sanskrit, and reminded me to be sure and floss my hooves.

"Don't you mean 'our' hooves, Nemo?"

We don't think she heard us.

I tossed my shredded left sock in the bin, grabbed the mate sock and, scowling at the hoof, silently vowed to be more careful with this one.

And on my way out, I stopped by the water cooler to fill up my hump.