Apparently, the last functioning remnant of my masculinity has been deemed a threat and is now being slated for destruction.
Jill and I agreed that I should get a vasectomy. That sentence is disingenuous. I’m just protecting my ego by writing that.
Jill agreed that I should get a vasectomy. She agreed with herself. I had no say. She told me her decision as I was rubbing her feet. I almost spilled my PSL.
“But I’m not broken.”
So I checked in with my sister in law because she’s the one who makes all the decisions for her husband who had a vasectomy.
“Will I still be awesome?”
“Just go to your doc, get a referral, go for a consultation, and THEN they’ll schedule your procedure.”
“That’s a lot of work.”
“Not for a man.”
That night as I was rubbing Jill’s feet during “Wine Wednesday.” I told her that it would be a lot of work. “It’s a lot of work to get a vasectomy.”
“Just shut up.”
“Let’s just do this: I’ll call up the animal welfare place and tell them I need my dog neutered and then I’ll show up in a dog costume.”
“For you, we’d have to say ‘we need our dog spayed.'”
“I’ll bet it’ll be a lot cheaper too.”
“All I want to hear is rubbing.”
I called my doc and tried to schedule my appointment. They weren’t there and I left a message and I’m sure they’re all listening to it and laughing at the way my voice sounds like a less-confident Kermit the Frog.
When they do get back to me, I’ll have to take time off work, wait in a waiting room for 45 minutes and then wait in an exam room for another 20 minutes before the doctor will come into the room and write the name of another doctor on a piece of paper and charge me $20 for the pleasure. And he’ll do it all while never opening his eyes. I go to a doctor who never opens his eyes. He’ll face me and talk and move about, but his eyes never open. I could rob him and he’d never be able to identify me.
“Well, he sounds like a less-confident Kermit the Frog, officer.”
But it has to be done. And then I will have to put ice on myself. Ice all on my business. And not lift anything heavy for a few days. Which won’t be easy. Because lifting heavy things gives me a rush. Makes me feel alive.
Oh, you just watered that big plant in that big-ass planter? Well step aside. I’m about to rock that plant’s world. I know it’s heavy and there’s no need to move it anywhere! I’m sure it’s damn heavy. I’m sure it’s fine right where it is! But a boring life where heavy things stay put just ain’t for me! I can’t live that buttoned up existence where heavy things are just doomed to never be lifted from flat surfaces. Someone’s gotta shake things up around here. Hi, I’m Jeff Terry, I’m that someone.
So while I wait for the sperm executioner to get back to me with the scheduled genocide, I’m left to make my peace with my piece. Here’s a poem I wrote to help me cope:
FIXED: An Ode to My Load.
You swam for your life.
Against my better judgment.
You swam with no arms or legs.
Into a resevoir tip.
Into a sock.
Into certain death in dark places.
The lava in my man volcano.
The frothy eruption from my man-geyser.
You were a force of nature.
You lived a short, fast, explosive life.
Most of the time we were rooting against you.
Most of the time you were reviled.
Though, admittedly, we are hugging and raising three of you.
But we want no more.
I say “no more.”
You swam against the odds
just for a chance to be,
but now we’re closing your swim club.
And I am unloaded.
Filled with emptiness.
By being broken,
I am fixed.