The author subjects himself to genetic tests, scans and other high-tech diagnostics to report on how the trend toward "personalized medicine" will affect us
What's left of the General Tso's chicken is on the coffee table. The sauce that eluded my mouth is congealing on my T-shirt. American Idol just started. And Megan, my fiance of three days, is getting ready to swab the inside of my mouth with Q-Tips that are nearly as long as chopsticks. "OK, open that mouth," she says. "Wider." She is a doctor. I do as I'm told. "You know, these look like little Pap-smear brushes," she muses. My mouth snaps closed. "C'mon, open up," she says. I stall. "I love you," I say. "Kiss me." "Let me concentrate," she says.