For some reason, I could barely force myself to start. "Come on, Johnny boy!" I told myself. "Let's go!" I made myself take a first stroke with the razor. Man! It burned like fire. I started another stroke and the burning came before the razor even touched my face. I had to give up. I went down to the office without a shave. That was no good, of course, so at the coffee break I forced myself around the corner to the barber shop. Same thing! I got all lathered up all right, holding myself by force in the chair. But, before the barber could touch the razor to my face, the burning started again. I stopped him. I couldn't take it. And then suddenly the idea came to me that an electric razor would be the solution. It wasn't, actually, just an idea; it was positive knowledge. Somehow I knew an electric razor would do it. I picked one up at the drug store around the corner and took it to the office. Plugged the thing in and went to work. It was fine, as I had known it would be. As close a shave? Well, no. But at least it was a shave. Another thing was my approach to--or retreat from--drinking. Not that I ever was a real rummy, but I hadn't been one to drag my feet at a party. Now I got so moderate it hardly seemed worth bothering with at all. I could only take three or four drinks, and that only about once a week. The first time I had that feeling I should quit after four, I tried just one--or two--more. At the first sip of number five, I thought the top of my head would blast off. Four was the limit. Rigidly enforced. All that winter, things like that kept coming up. I couldn't drink more than so much coffee. Had to take it easy on smoking. Gave up ice skating--all of a sudden the cold bothered me. Stay up late nights and chase around? No more; I could hardly hold my eyes open after ten. That's the way it went. I had these feelings, compulsions actually. I couldn't control them. I couldn't go against them. If I did, I would suffer for it. True, I had to admit that probably all these things were really good for me. But it got to where everything I did was something that was good for me--and that was bad. Hell, it isn't natural for a young fellow just out of college to live like a fussy old man of seventy with a grudge against the undertaker. Life became very dull! About the only thing I could say for it was, I was sure healthy. It was the first winter since I could remember that I never caught a cold. A cold? I never once sniffled. My health was perfect; never even so much as a pimple. My dandruff and athlete's foot disappeared. I had a wonderful appetite--which was lucky, since I didn't have much other recreation left. And I didn't even gain weight! Well, those things were nice enough, true. But were they compensation for the life I was being forced to live? Answer: Uh-uh. I couldn't imagine what was wrong with me. Of course, as it turned out the following spring, I didn't have to imagine it. I was told. II