I messaged my buddy, Scott, when I got home:
Me: Well, that was an unpleasant doctor's visit!
Scott: What did you have done? Did they rotate the tires or check the oil?
I stared at his messages for a moment, trying to decide how to cleverly convert his car-maintenance quips into the analog of what was done to me during my check-up. It soon dawned on me that he had already done that.
Me: Oh... uh... I DID have the oil checked!
Me: Hell, I had the tires rotated too!
I guess I was a timing-belt change short of a full 90,000 mile tune-up! Anyway, the point is that I had one of THOSE check-ups last week. You know, the kind that men start to have in their 40s? The kind that would be called sex had I been in a relationship with my doctor?
I sat in the examining room, ready to recite my list of aches and ailments I had accumulated since my last trip to the doctor three years earlier. Just like last time, the doctor came in, gave me a quick look up and down and pronounced me healthy.
"A young healthy guy like you doesn't need much of a check-up!" my doctor announced, seemingly trying to convince us both of that fact. "We'll just talk about a few things and then the physical exam will be VERY minimal."
She said this as though I was sitting there begging her to put her hand up my butt and I needed to be talked out of it. It was very apparent that she intended to keep herself as far away from my butt as possible. That's probably a generally wise strategy for non-dog mammals.
So, we chatted about my family's medical history and the fact that my mother's doctor-avoidance strategy now consists mainly of her saying, "I'm sure I'll feel better tomorrow."
"Anything else you'd like to discuss?" the doc asked.
I then launched into my list of injuries and health concerns from head (nose) to toe (foot tendons). After hearing the full list, the doc let out a defeated, "Oh... ok", asked me to get undressed, and slowly shuffled out of the room to get a large tube of lube.
She came back a few moments later and explained very clinically how she was going to examine my testicles. (This would be the "tire rotation" part of the metaphor). I can't recall exactly what she said because I was mostly wondering whether I was going to get an erection during this procedure. As it turns out, the specter of the upcoming "oil check", made all the more prominent by the industrial-sized tube of lube on the counter, pretty much killed the mood. It was a boner-free examination.
After my testicles were given the sexy all-clear, the doc asked me to get up on the examining table.
"Please hop up there, lay on your side, and curl up facing away from me," she suggested gently.
"Really?" I asked, "We do this with me in the fetal position?"
"Well, it seemed more humane than just asking you to bend over."
The humane part of the examination ended exactly right then. At that point, a woman, with whom I have spent roughly 25 minutes over my entire life, stuck her hand up my ass. Jesus Sphincter-clenching Christ, that was odd.
The good news is that my prostate is smooooooth and healthy. The bad news is that I'm still having flashbacks.