What A Man Can Expect at the Doctor’s Office When He Turns 40

So there I was nearly one year ago, being discharged from the doctor’s office.

“Do you like early appointments?”
“Sure”
“Is February 14th of next year at 8:00am OK?”

“Sure”

My thinking was that my son would already be in school and since we’d have to be up getting him and his sister ready for school, there would be no sleeping in romantic-embrace-style like in the movies. But still, I’m no idiot, so I checked with the wife to make sure this was OK, because I figured since the appointment was a year out, there would be plenty of other spots if she wanted me to change it. I distinctly remember her not having a problem with it.

During the course of the past year, I had heard rumblings from friends about the 40th birthday check-up being the one where things “get interesting”. Well, sure, doctor’s appointments are always pretty dry. I wouldn’t mind if they were a bit more interesting. Is that when they give you the room that has ESPN on a flat screen? I’d never been too big of a fan of those modern woman magazines that they usually have lying around. But then again, I had just had my testicles medically groped, so I was very curious to hear exactly what it was going to make it more interesting.

The word is out that the leading medical societies have deemed it necessary that fingers be put up the male rear end after 40. Well, this certainly didn’t sound “interesting” at all. In fact, it sounded downright frightening. Nothing had been up there since I fell on that shampoo bottle in college. I imagined my friendly medical professional looking like that “Beast” woman on Glee with gigantic man hands. I swear on my man-card that I don’t watch Glee. I have only seen Glee long enough to know that there is a teacher named “Beast” who looks like my college roommate with a sex change. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not actually him. At least I don’t think it is. Then again, it’s been several years since I’ve seen him.

Anyway, I woke up and slept enough times that the day was finally here. Even though I was positive that I had already cleared it with the tower, I was predictably shamed for setting up my doctor’s appointment on Valentine’s Day. She must have found out about the testicle-cradling and finger-poking. Jealousy is an ugly thing.

I didn’t know exactly what combination of intimate actions would be done to me, and I didn’t feel like calling in advance to find out because that seems a little desperate. Play it cool, man. Play it cool. But I may have scrubbed the scrote a bit more than usual and I spared no Charmin after my morning constitutional just in case. But unfortunately I had coffee that morning and felt some more rumblings a mere 15 minutes before my appointment. I figured I had better clear things out a bit more, lest there be any obstructions in the way of someone performing their medical duties. I didn’t want my story to end up in some medical journal or on Youtube. I broke out a new roll, just in case.

As I arrived at the office, I wondered how this would all go down. Would there be a lineup like in the HBO show “Cathouse”? If so, I would use the same criteria that the guys on the show do. I’d pick the girl with the prettiest smile, largest breasts, and most importantly the smallest fingers. But no, there was no lineup. I was sent to pee in a cup (I had forgotten about the cup!) even though I had just gone 2 minutes ago. I produced all I could muster and shamefully placed my 2 teaspoon specimen in the pass-through window. Normally, I’d try and slip out without being linked to it, but I had to put my name on it with a Sharpie.

Then I had to step on the scale while they recorded my weight. They slid some weights around a balance that indicated some ungodly amount of weight. I would have felt terrible about those numbers except that I am pretty sure that my clothes weight about 28 pounds.

Back in the room where the dehumanizing probing was sure to take place, a woman came in and took my blood pressure. Her hands felt awfully cold. I took a casual glance at her digits. Her fingers could be a bit thinner, I thought. Plus, she was wearing a big jagged ring. Ouch. Not looking good. Maybe they’ll call to the woman in the back who only does anal-probings? I felt that when it was time, I ought to tell her that it was my first time so that maybe she could put the lights down a bit and play some soft music. Maybe tell me that I’m pretty. But blood pressure lady left the room after saying something about a CAT scan. “Colon And Testicle Scan”, I assumed. Uh oh, here it comes.
Several butt-clenched minutes passed until finally the doctor came in. Oh no, her hands were even bigger! And being a rich lady, she even had a larger ring on. I wondered how many knuckles deep she had to go. Sure, she probably has gloves, but they’re probably made with cheap materials. That thing could cut right through 7 layers of Chinese latex, I’d bet. She started going through my blood test results . Cholesterol … glucose…butt pressure….Did she say “blood pressure” or “butt pressure”? She asked if I had had a colonoscopy . I said, “no”, expecting the next sentence to be “Do you want one?” But then she continued with something about needing to exercise more. Or exercise some at least. So there it is another year gone by and the medical establishment’s answer is still “exercise”? I keep hoping every year that the answer changes to “more TV and beer”, but no luck. Thanks for nothing, medical technology . We definitely need another Sputnik moment on that front.

So after all of that idle chit-chat, she tells me that she’s going to “take me up front”. Up front? Doesn’t she mean “out back”? Maybe they do the sack grab first? Yes, probably more sanitary that way. Then she opened the door. She’s going to do this with the door open? But then she starts walking down the hall to the check-out desk. It’s over. We’re done. A stay of sphinctercution until my 41st birthday perhaps? Life is good!

Then I started to wonder…was it my breath or something?