I have had a massive brain fart for the last few months...OK, years.
Here’s the deal. When I first started writing the column, 13 years ago, I was in my mid-thirties, married, an alchoholic, with the ol’ lady in grad school. Basically, I had nothing else to do.
Fast forward, I still have the web site and I wite the column. I haven’t updated the site since 2008, and the last time I worked on it, I didn’t finish the project. So now, I’m 50 years old, I still have my lovely wife plus two gorgeous daughters, a nice house, a real job, but no time.
I no longer drink myself into a dim-witted stupor, which was the source of most my stories because I did so many stupid things when I was drunk. For a long while, I didn’t know what to write about, all the stupid antics I did when I was younger just don’t happen anymore.
I guess what I really wanted to do was write about my drunk adventures which no longer happened, so I turned up blank. Then I realized that I can still write about stuff that happens to old people.
That would be me.
Along with getting older and wise enough not to drink myself silly, comes medical health. I’ve always ate well and exercised, but when you hit 50 you have to start going to a doctor to check all those things that kill old people…like prostate and colon cancer.
I had been living the life of Riley, because my old doctor couldn’t diagnose himself out of a wet paper bag. That meant no testing of any kind, but he moved out of town and I had to get a real doctor that actually looks for stuff and takes the blood tests and what-not.
Turns out I don’t have a functional thyroid, which explains why it used to take two days to get over a hang-over. So I got the thyroid medicine. I also got sinus allergies, so I got the flonaise to keep the nose in check…I am more comfortable, and my head is much clearer without the booze, and with the thyroid medicine. Pretty uneventful.
Except last week.
The new doc says I gotta get my prostate checked, so I say “Check-away doc, I’m in perfect health. Well he puts a glove on his right hand and tells me to drop my drawers. “What kinda check is this prostate thing anyways?” I ask.
“I have to check inside your rectum.” He replied.
I think to myself, “Gee, that’s kinda personal, we’re not even going steady.” I’m imagining the whole hand and part of the arm. “Sounds painful, are you gonna knock me out first?”
“That won’t be necessary,” he replies, “this will only take a minute.”
“A whole arm!?” I think, “I never had that done to me before. I’m a prostate virgin. This just don’t seem right. He should provide a nice candle lit dinner first.”
“Well, it’s almost noon,” I say out loud, “Shouldn’t you at least take me out to lunch first?”
“Now your being silly. Here, drop your drawers and I’ll just take a look. I should be able to see everything, just by looking.” He explains.
“Just looking, like an x-ray?” I ask.
“Just looking.” He replies.
“Well, Ok, if your just gonna…looooooooook.”
He does the full exam.
Thank goodness it wasn’t the whole arm.
Still, I didn’t expect it to happen.
It was over in few seconds.
And I walked to my car alone, feeling dirty, with K-Y jelly drippling down my leg.
Finally, after all this time, I realize why I never got second dates.
By the way, the prostate is in good shape.