Someone handled my Nuts today.
It's not like it was just anybody. It was a professional - and by professional, I mean a Doctor, not some skanky chick out behind the Campbellton Esso.
You see, today was my consultation for a Vasectomy.
Yes, you heard right, a Vasectomy. I know that messing around with my jiggly bits is somewhat akin to defacing a national monument - you might as well take the horses out of The Musical Ride - but it's something that needs to be done. (Why? Well that's a whole other post, isn't it?)
The most uncomfortable part of the consult? Having my nuts cradled in the hands of another man. (Of course). His hands were cold - that's all I'm really willing to share at the moment. (I don't think warm hands would have lessened my discomfort.) He had to check and see if the tubes were easily accessible - I think he just wanted a peek so he wasn't overwhelmed by my package come operating day. The tubes were fine - although one of them kept eluding his grasp, like it knew he was hunting for it and out of instinct was dodging away.
I was almost expecting him to say "They're like steel cables - there's no way I can cut these!"
Alas that was not the case.
Afterwards we went over what the procedure entails and how it's going to happen. I felt like I was planning a heist to sneak into The Smithsonian and break up all their shit. (He will be wearing a mask, remember.)
So that's it.
Next Thursday I go in and come out tender, but able to fling my pseudo-seed with abandon.
Ice Packs all around, y'all.