Before I begin today's tale of personal awakening, a few caveats:
If you currently feel sated with my personal medical data, and I wouldn't blame you, go ahead and click back to the Walmart shoppers site.
You might consider putting down your pepperoni and Velveeta Hot Pocket, or anything else you may be eating.
If you happen to be married to me, take this opportunity to contemplate my plethora of other awesome physical monuments.
Okay, now that that bit of housekeeping is behind us, I'll get on with it.
I've been experiencing some skin issues lately; two warts, to be more specific. One lives on the top knuckle of my right index finger, and, after repeated skirmishes and all-out "wartfare," this alien has merely returned meatier and more robust. I'd even consider calling in a priest, but I'm not interested in listening to a wart shout profanities about what my mother does and where she does it.
The other offending body resides on my left little toe. After years occupying mere nuisance status, it's apparently experienced a puberty-ish growth spurt and has surpassed its neighbor to the north on the distraction meter. Walking has become painful, as the rubber toe of my Converse often sandwiches this fleshy growth like a cauliflower-stuffed panini.
I, like most people, have been putting off addressing these unwelcome house guests with my doctor, but, just as I awoke that fateful morning determined to sever a toxic journey with my girlfriend, yesterday morning greeted me with a similar resolve.
I scheduled an appointment for the afternoon. Quickly summoned to the exam area after walking the two blocks to the Medical Dental Building, I was pleased to be finally addressing these nagging blemishes.
Okay, just a side note, here...why the hell do they have to weigh a guy who's having a couple of warts looked at? It's cruel and unnecessary, and my clothes are extremely heavy. Also, I found it highly inappropriate to hear, "Damn, son," whispered by a medical professional.
I was led into an exam room and told to remove my shoe and sock, sit on the tissue covered table and wait for the doctor. They always know how to throw you off a little. You can never be at your witty best with your ass sticking out of a gown, nor can you when fully clothed except for one bare foot which is five degrees colder than the rest of your body.
These rooms are all the same, and they usually have a magazine rack. I always struggle to decide whether to grab some literature or just stare at the sharps container. Since the stack included Sports Illustrated, I hopped off the table, crinkling the paper beneath my butt and grabbed the magazine.
I'd only flipped open the cover when I heard a cheerful tappity tap on the door.
Again? I thought. I hadn't seen this guy in seven months, for a physical. We'd been intimate, yes, but come on, it's been seven full months, man.
The way he poked his head around the door gave me the feeling I'd been caught in the middle of something. I felt an eerie deja vu as I held the magazine with a tube of personal lubricant resting on the counter just inches to my left.
I quickly shed the 1976 flashback and we got down to business.
"Okay, here's the course of action I'm recommending." I liked his decisive attitude.
"We're going to freeze the warts, probably four to five treatments for each. I've also been prescribing a pill which has been very successful in ridding the body of all its warts, not just the ones treated topically."
Perfect, I thought. Finally, we're gonna make some headway.
"There is one side effect, however. It's very rare, but I'm obligated to tell you that this medication can cause breast pain..."
Okay, no big deal. I don't really like my breasts referred to as "breasts"; "pecs" or "chiseled chest chops" are better, but, whatever. I can handle a little discomfort.
He continued, "...and possible lactation."
Oh, my god. Have you ever been shocked and highly amused simultaneously?
"Are you serious?" I asked.
"I'm afraid I am."
Wow. If my wife had known about this medication eleven or sixteen years ago, I'd have been popping these things like Skittles and providing daddy smoothies while she went back to work. If people think they're repulsed by mothers who breastfeed in public, what would happen if they'd seen me at the mall food court, gently stroking the head of an afghan-covered infant as it burrowed into my nourishing torso?
Honey, come one. Let's eat our Cinnabons somewhere else.
Despite the total freakiness of this medication, I think I'm going to give this a shot. Warts are a drag, and if I can rid my body of them, I suppose I'm willing to assume the risks.
And besides, I've heard that terry cloth shirts are in this fall.