Throwing Poo

The back of my hand is familiar, but there is nothing I know better than my junk.  I examine it, play with it, encourage it, share it with others, and let it make decisions for me.

A few weeks ago while I was performing a self-examination - I like to call it "playing doctor" - I noticed a lump.  Before you rush off to buy sympathy cards, send flowers or hatch an evil plan to woo the Widow Squirrel, Esq, it appears that the twins are fine.  You won't even have to feel weird about discussing Lance Armstrong, chewing Doublemint gum, or listening to "Two for Tuesday" when I'm around.

Still, it was a stressful few weeks.  Not that I was worried about the Big Casino so much, but because I knew that I was going to have to offer up my unit for inspection, starting with my general practitioner.  Starting with her.

I want to be the kind of man who doesn't care about things like having a female doctor analyzing the hanging fruit of his loins.  But leading up to my appointment, I began getting very anxious.  I felt like an old gunslinger who had long ago walked away from the quick-draw life.  Now, trouble had come-a-callin' and he was forced to dig up the pearl-handled six shooters that were buried in the ground.

OK, maybe that's a bit of a stretch.  I guess it's just that, since I've been married, the thought of having to get naked in front of another woman hasn't really occurred to me.  Even though this woman is my doctor - and, I think, a very good one - the idea of presenting my potentially damaged goods to her felt really weird. 

You know how people always want to take a good picture?  Whether snapped by a photographer from the local newspaper or an annoying aunt who will probably just stuff it in a shoebox in her musty basement, people want to show their best side.  That's how I felt.  Not that I expected her to marvel at its beauty and call in all her nurses to chime "coochy coo" and tickle my bag like a baby's chin.  I just wanted to make a good impression.

So, right before my appointment, I took a really long, hot shower, put on clean underwear and wore heavy sweatpants to minimize shrinkage due to the cold weather.  Arriving for my exam, my doctor was her typical friendly and professional self.  She apologized for making me wait a few minutes and explained that it had been a particularly frantic day.  At that moment it hit me: here is someone who sees, touches and smells all manner of horrible human condition every day in order to try to help them.  And I am a totally vain piece of shit.

The time came and went for her to Tune in Tokyo (the male version), and I felt like a complete tool for having been so anxious.  Explaining that everything was fine and suggesting precautionary measures, my doctor removed her rubber gloves and began washing her hands.  She continued talking and washing for what seemed to me like an excessive amount of time.   

For some reason, that kind of hurt my feelings.