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. "What if I don't do this right?" "Then," I reply, "I guess I'll never know if I'm gonna die." Megan, at my behest, is after my DNA, because I am after the future of my body. This was my assignment: to take every medical test I could get my hands on to predict what will happen to my body 5, 10, 15 years from now. I set out to find the most advanced diagnostics available, early examples of technologies that would get me as close as possible to the future of medicine, when doctors will use genetic and imaging tests to predict what diseases a person is prone to developing. When illness does strike, treatments will be tailored to each patient. The researchers, doctors and drug companies working on this new gene-based paradigm are calling it personalized medicine. Their buzzphrase: "The right treatment for the right person at the right time."