Oh hai, vasectomy check-in admissions lady.
I got dressed in the dark to be here today.
My hair is a rat’s nest and I am wearing a leopard print bra under my white wife beater and some juicy sweatpants.
Not that it’s your job or anything, but a little advance warning would have been nice. Like, you know, before I walk into a waiting room, full of Mennonites, and women in bonnets gasp and grab their crosses, and the men folk cover the eyes of their small Mennonite children, because I’m dressed like one of those rap guys’ girlfriends!?
But, it’s cool. I’ll just sit here, being an abomination, reading my Twilight (!) book and discreetly trying to smell under my arms to double check my deodorant situation while people in homemade jeans and aprons glare at me in disgust.
Not like I haven’t had that happen before.
Sidenote: These people make their own jeans?! That is like the hardest thing ever! I remember when I was little and my mom thought my jeans were too long, she would just cut them and hem them with whatever jacked up thread was in her sewing machine. I looked like a giant tool. If these Mennonites were smart, they would send a Mennonite jeans maker to be on Project Runway, ’cause you know those bitches always freak out when they have to do menswear, ’cause pants are hard as fuck, and these Mennonites would own that shit.
Where was I, oh yes, vasectomy. So, I was waiting on that…until I remembered I had his post surgery required jock strap in my bag. Which was super fun pulling out while I was looking for my lip gloss.
What’s up folks, it’s me, Hester Prynne, I am here to sleep with your bearded husbands, burn your villages and toss gigantic jock straps at your dead burning corpse.
But, at least it got me out of the waiting room long enough to jog my jiggly ass to the pre surgery prep area, where I found my husband, pale as a sheet, his first IV ever in his hand, with big navy hospital socks pulled up to his knees, kinda like the ones Holly wears on Girls Next Door. It seriously would have been super sad and scary, if it wasn’t absolutely hilarious, trumped only by the fact that his surgery nurse was, oh yes, one of his mom’s oldest friends. So, not only did I get to snicker 3949547593 times when the lady came in to double check he was going in for sterilization (how Minority Report does that sound!?), but I also got to chuckle, that this lady, the one who has known Andy his whole entire life, was going to have a front row seat to shaving his balls. I mean, he doesn’t even let me shave his balls!
It was bananas.
But, then they wheeled him back, and I got teary thinking about, in just a few short minutes, having babies would be done for me.
And I just, like, lost it.
No more peeing on sticks, or baby kicks, or picking out names.
I suddenly felt old and menopausal. That part of my life was, unquestionably, over.
I mean, assuming his two post surgery semen samples met the sterilization quota.
And, while the thought of my husband having to fill tiny cups with semen made me smile, I was still sad.
So, I wandered back to the waiting room to wait for them to call my name. The Mennonites were eating McDonalds. It smelled super good. I love McMuffins. And hasbrowns. And pancakes.
Oh my God, my mother in law showed up to his vasectomy, how creepy is that!?
No wait, she means me. Why is my mouth wet? Hold on, he’s already done? You wiped away our fertility faster than it takes for Henry the pug to get his anal glands expressed at the vet?
As I walked down the hallway to the recovery room, my ovaries played Taps.
It was weird seeing such a strong man lying all covered up in a hospital bed with his legs spread open. He looked so young and delicate. I teared up again, put my arm across him, and told him how amazing he was, and how much I loved him, and the kids loved him, and that I would wait on him hand and foot until he felt better.
Then he woke up, vomited on my arm, yelled that his balls hurt, and asked me if I had any deodorant on.
But, I know what he meant to say was…I love you, too.