This year I turned 60. I wish I could tell you that I took it well. But I didn't. I tried to convince myself that 60 is the new 50. But then I remembered I didn't feel so hot when I was 50 either.

I'm told that when some people reach a milestone birthday they like to reflect back upon the achievements throughout their lives and maybe plumb from that exercise some sense of who they are or what they believe in. In an attempt to shake my malaise, I thought I'd give it a try.

Turns out, who I am is a hypochondriac and what I believe in is that my biggest contribution to mankind will come later: when I donate my body to science.

See, I started thinking about my most recent malady-I won't bore you with the details-when I began doing an inventory of my health concerns over the years and, consequently, the multitude of fine men and women from the health care profession I have had the privilege, borne out of necessity, to meet.

The list literally runs from head to toe. From ingrown toe nails to hair loss, and everything in between. I've met otolaryngologists and dermatologists, podiatrists and urologists, optometrists and orthopedic surgeons, internists and allergists, general practitioners and hematologists, and a wide assortment of nurses, technicians, office staffs, and parking lot attendants.

I've been poked, prodded, stuck, plucked, shaved, bathed, X-rayed, and injected. I've stood in front of healthcare professionals whose names I could barely remember and allowed them to see me clothed, semi-clad, and stark naked. I've been examined sitting in a chair, prostate on an examine table, and, uh, bending over. I've had to learn how not blink, hold my breath, say "ah" and turn my head to the side and cough, all on command.

I have had some healthcare professionals speak to me with concern and compassion, others patronize me, and still others fight, often uselessly, to hide their amusement at my latest health concern.

I've had to stick out more parts of my body than seen at a big wedding when the band plays the "Hokey Pokey."

I feel closer to many of my organs than some people do to their children. I carry a picture from my latest colonoscopy in my wallet. When I have my annual check up and pass with flying colors, I mentally high five my bladder and kidneys and give props to my heart, lungs, liver, and appendix. "Nice job, guys. Way to work as a team."

No wonder my favorite game as a kid was "Operation" and the book I took out of the library most often was Gray's Anatomy.

Yet, as I review my life's accomplishments to date, I also think about the travel to foreign lands, a beach house in Florida, the many sports cars, the addition to the family room, the fine cigars, fine clothes that few other than the Republican National Committee can afford, the fine jewelry, and even the expensive dental work to preserve the children's gorgeous smiles. I only wish I could have enjoyed these things myself rather than hearing about them from all the doctors I've supported over the years. No, really, I don't begrudge any of you such pleasures. In fact, I thought about inviting all of you to my sixtieth birthday party-but I couldn't find a ballroom big enough!

Seriously though, when you survive six decades you realize you probably wouldn't have made it without a sense of humor-something we no doubt will need in abundance over the next few years as our country seems destined to go through a rough patch. So to all of you who have made my life the mostly pleasant journey it has been-that goes especially for my better half, Bernie-thanks much. And for those who have made the journey less than pleasant, the wisdom that comes with age tells me to thank you too for giving me challenges that forged my character and, most of all, for serving as flesh and blood examples of the kind of person I did not want to become.

Gotta go. I want to surf the WebMD symptom checker to see if I can find something else to worry about.

Harvey Kart