When I was in college in that tiny little town in southwest Arkansas, I would sometimes get sick and go see a doctor. One of the few that I could afford was this guy in a small clinic on the other side of town. At the end of the session, he’d check off a preprinted diagnosis form and hand it to me with any prescription orders and send me to check out.
I got a sense that he was, in some way, a classic sort of country doctor, because the form had this one diagnosis that always caught my eye: failure to thrive. Of all the diagnoses on that form, that’s the one that made me chuckle. Of course, it’s a bad thing to have, but c’mon, that’s a great turn of phrase.
I kinda felt like, socially and economically, that definitely was my Twenties. Rough.