Victim of Circum...cision

I spend a great deal of time in awe of the majesty and mystery that is
life. Not a day goes by where I don't take a moment to reflect on just
how perfectly planned this universe is. Everything, with the possible
exception of Todd Bridges and Fruit Roll-Ups, has a unique purpose in
this grand vision of the Creator. Take ourselves for example. Working
hand in hand, every molecule, atom, and cell comes together to form a
creature of perfection. A machine that is built as a self sufficient,
long lasting biological miracle until it succumbs to artery plaque. I
believe that, as our Lord said, "My body is a temple."

Please take the time to read the above paragraph once again. After
that, grab any religious text, from the Koran to the Bible to the
writings of Marshall Applewhite. Now if you can, please tell my wife
where in any of that it says anything about the meaning of my life
including a doctor taking a knife to my crotch.

We're currently working on our 4th child and all of a sudden my wife
is stricken with a panic that I just cannot understand. I mean, it's
not like she's the one who has to pay for all of this. Things were
working out just fine until recently when we've decided to have
another child and give the Van Patten's a run for their money. The
rest of my family has figured out to just check the Wall Street
Journal on a daily basis, and if they see a noticeable up-tick in
Johnson & Johnson stock, "Doug must not have gotten that vasectomy
yet."

I've done some pondering in an attempt to uncover the reason why I get
so nervous at the idea of someone taking a jagged edged Ginsu to, what
I so lovingly refer to as "The Crown Jewels of Ireland". I think it
goes back to my botched circumcision and ensuing sloppy repair job.
Deep in REM sleep I still have flashbacks to my infancy, laying on a
table crying while a doctor of questionable sobriety and obvious
cataracts fumbled with a scalpel which was about as sharp as Helen
Keller's butter knife. I can't get that vision out of my head. Call me
crazy, but I'm in no hurry to repeat the experience.

I keep putting it off. It's like firing Bobby Knight, it ain't easy.
There's my little fella down there, yelling at the officials and
throwing chairs and I just can't bring myself to do anything about it.
But do something about it I must. If I don't the world will soon be
overrun with tall, introverted people who avoid 12-Step Programs
because they're waiting for the elevator, say "what an asshole" about
everybody and steadfastly refuse to get a vasectomy.

But what are my options? I could feign a newfound enlightenment and
religious zeal and practice complete celibacy, though I think my wife
would see that I fell off that wagon after she notices that I've been
in the bathroom for 3 hours and her "Bikini Depot" catalog is missing.
I could go the condom route, though that still may not solve the
problem. At least it would give me a chance to use that Trojan that's
been in my wallet since 1983, still bearing the tooth marks of a
frustrated young man unschooled in the ways of modern packaging. I'm
sure if I used it now it would blow out so fast I could probably at
least round up some college money by suing Firestone.

I do realize the need on my part to do something before we run out of
room in the car. Throw one more kid in my Toyota Camry and all of a
sudden we go from being a family to a warm-up act for Ringling
Brothers. You don't know how creative you can be until you're jammed
in a car. Until I had kids, I had no idea that a Samsonite wheeled
suitcase could fit in the glove compartment. Also the mess is
horrendous. After we reach any destination with the kids my car looks
like a United Airlines flight carrying a full load of childrens books
and graham crackers hit a micro-burst. It's at times like those when a
vasectomy starts to sound like a good idea. That is, until I start
thinking again about the pain.

My wife's even gone as far as trying to get me to talk to her friend's
husband, who's had a vasectomy, for "some support." Sure. I've already
heard the horror stories. She wants me to be calmed down by a guy who
went to some person who makes Josef Mengele look like Dr. Suess, let
him take a knife to an area which God only intended a washcloth and
Pamela Anderson to go, was in incredible pain and spent the next two
days walking around with a package of Birds-Eye frozen peas in his
underwear. Yeah, ringing endorsement honey. Tell ya what, pick me up a
can of frozen orange juice concentrate and a package of Steak-Umms and
I'll have two vasectomies! It'll be a party!

If I do go through with this, I certainly don't want it videotaped. It
seems that all they teach these people in medical school anymore is
that we really want to tape our surgeries so we can review them over
popcorn with the family later that night. Like I really want the
moment I've dreaded most (well, make that second-most, the first being
that someone would decide to renew "Cop Rock") made into some sort of
sick, twisted Zapruder film so that scholars, theologians and
urologists for decades to come could review their "pristine scalpel"
theory. "See...back, and to the left. Back, and to the left."

We all face moments of crisis in our lives. This is one of mine. I can
either face up to my responsibilities like a man, or turn and run
away. Actually, I was thinking more about driving, but I don't have
enough car seats. Maybe there's an extra one in the glove compartment.

Copyright 2001 By Doug Powers