AKA: A Cautionary Tale of Ice, Pride, and Couch Sovereignty
It all started with a handshake, a clipboard, and a doctor far too cheerful for a man about to rearrange my family jewels. He called it a “simple outpatient procedure.” I called it “Tuesday.”
The actual snip? Easy. A couple pinches, a whiff of something burning (still not sure if that was me or a grilled cheese next door), and boom—no more swimmers. The real challenge came later.
First, I underestimated the value of tight underwear. I thought I could tough it out in boxers. I could not. Gravity is a cruel mistress.
Second, I didn’t prepare my recovery cave. I had one ice pack, a remote I couldn’t find, and a dog that insisted my lap was still fair game. Spoiler: it was not.
By day two, I was hobbling like a cowboy who'd lost a bar fight. My partner, between giggles, offered sympathy in the form of frozen peas and a cold beer—neither of which I could truly enjoy because sitting upright was now a full-contact sport.
But here’s the thing: I’d do it again. Because pain fades. Regret doesn’t. And now I get to say the words “elective surgery” and “shoots blanks” in the same sentence, check.
So to anyone considering the snip: prep your nest, honor the ice, and for the love of all things sacred—wear the tight briefs. Your future self will thank you. Probably from the couch.