I think it was Dustin Hoffman in the movie Tootsie that suggested that any time a man misbehaved he should be zapped in the badoobies (his word, not mine) with cattle prod any time he misbehaves. I'm certain every man in the theatre crossed their legs in mock pain and doubled over in that moment purely from the painful thought of such a transgression. No man wants to see his testes under a scalpel, come to think of it no man even wants to entertain such an idea. However, when I considered how much I dreaded midnight feedings of a colicky child, the steady stream of dirty diapers, and the constant lack of sleep I figured a vasectomy was a small price to pay. Besides, unlike females our stuff is on the outside so how bad could it be? Those would quickly become my famous last words. This is also a gentle reminder that there is humor in nearly everything if we look hard enough.
When I laid on that cold medical table with the butcher paper stuck to my ass a million thoughts raced through my head. I wondered if they might have to put the word "gelding" next to my name on a racing form from now on. Men are hesitant to part with anything that is tied directly to our manhood including our testosterone. Although I cannot for the life of me figure out why. You can take nearly any situation in life, add testosterone to it and it will automatically become worse. Nobody loathes needles worse than yours truly. I don't believe I have ever been jabbed with a needle in my life when I didn't go over like a sack of potatoes. Back when my dad was still alive, he never missed the opportunity to point out just how silly that phobia is. That is a fair assessment, but you cannot apply logic to an illogical fear. Can I get an Amen?
As the nurse prepped me for the procedure, she asked me (and I quote) if I had done my due diligence and "shaved my area." I had done my homework. My "area" as she so offhandedly put it was as smooth as Dr. Evil's head and nearly as hairless as his prized cat. By now, with heavy medical tape in hand she had every intention of strapping my manhood to my stomach. I also realized at this point that they should have just asked me to shave from my groin all the way to my Adams apple, no sense in leaving any margin of error or tempting fate. And once that tape had to come off (and eventually it would) it was going to feel like a mock male version of a bikini waxing. When I let her know on no uncertain terms that nothing the doc was going to do to me was going to get me excited enough for Mr. Johnson to get in his way and to be sure he was the wrong gender, her reply was this: "just relax, the man is wielding a knife, so we don't want to take any chances." Her point was well taken, and I abided her wish.
Once the procedure started, the doc let me know right away that the shot would be the worst part by far, he spoke truth. Then in a sheepish voice he said, "you may feel some pressure now." And he was right on, I did feel pressure like an elephant standing directly on the land of good and evil trying to tee off at the 9th hole with a 5 iron in hand. Weirdly, something about the way down south is wired it feels as though everything is interconnected. For instance, if he tugged lightly on the left side, I could feel it all the way to my #23 molar. I don't take the good Lord to task over much but what kind of plan is that?! That will be in my top five questions when I make it to the pearly gates.
Now that I had been given the green light to put my sweats back on, I felt as though I could possibly get my man card back in one piece. No man has ever reclaimed the male spirit with his tail section hanging out of one of those backward hospital gowns. The doc of course told me that I needed to go home, kick my feet up, watch the Godfather trilogy, and put a bag of frozen peas on my boys. Feeling that my embarrassment for the day might be just about over he quizzed me about my checkout sheet, which I had barely even glimpsed. He of course scolded me forthwith and then proceeded to tell me that I would not be allowed to leave his office until I was wearing an athletic supporter. I wasn't sure if he meant a Tulsa University basketball fan or a jock strap. So, once he made it clear to me, I quickly begged the nurse to run across the street to the pharmacy and pick one up for me. She kindly obliged. However, the final straw of the day was she came back with a medium. Folks, I'm 6' 3" and weigh 250, I couldn't even fit my pinky toe in a medium! Oh well, if I want to regain my dignity, I suppose there's always tomorrow.
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