Well, the party is over. After being part of bringing 4 wonderful kids into this world, my stud services are no longer needed.
Yes, I’m going to get a consult for a vasectomy.
I’m talked to some of the guys about it, and even Jacinda’s tried to console me, that it’s not a big deal [when you’re 42]. That it won’t hurt [much]. That I’ll still be a [useful] man. But I’m not convinced. There’s a big part of me that thinks that I’ll eventually morph into a RuPaul-esque version of myself, oddly at peace with the Lifetime channel and soy milk.
Funny thing is, I was halfway ok with the notion of having my seafaring boys locked in state of suspension until I got the letter from my primary physician referring me to their urology group. It was the one word I didn’t expect to see under the heading of Diagnoses: STERILIZATION
What?! Am I a pet now? Come on, could they have been more cold and clinical about this? Good golly that smarts, even now just looking at the letter, to see this emotionally sensitive procedure referred to with the same flatness as though it were from the vet. And who know, it does look like a form letter….
So, tomorrow morning I’ll go and talk to doc. They asked me if I preferred a male or female physician for the consult. Who cares? If it’s a guy, he’ll try to console me that it’s no big deal, little pain and really the only option unless your Brad Pitt. If it’s a women, well deep down she probably thinks I’m getting what I deserve and none too soon.