Grand Entry

I would like to address one particular side affect of getting old(er).
There comes a time in life when we, and when I say “we” I mean us guys, are advised to relinquish a measure of self-respect in the interest of health management. I’m talking about the rubber-gloved finger of shame. If you are in your thirties or younger, all I can say is, laugh it up funny boy, your time is coming. If there is any advice that I have to offer, it is this. When researching your physician database, choose a female urologist no more than four feet, seven inches in height. In this way, you can be reasonably confident that the finger utilized to plunder your precious rosebud will be no thicker than a McDonald’s french-fry.


Flashback – Alone in a urologist’s examination room, I am trying to make myself comfortable. My legs dangle from the edge of a tall narrow table. A thin sheet of noisy paper separates my bare rump from a cold, and distressingly stained, brown vinyl tabletop. There are lingering illusions as to my fate. Though I have anticipated this event for many years, the rumor mill has been strangely silent on the details. I hear a tapping on the door, the portal swings wide to reveal a giant of man in a white lab coat. The obvious correlation between body bulk and finger size has not yet registered. Moving quickly for a man of his dimensions, his arms fly about in random patterns. His hands simulate pathways and offer depictions of the organ of primary interest, all the while dropping the “r” word and the “p” bomb with none of the reverence that these most private of body parts deserve.


It was in the course of these wild gesticulations that the true scope of my pending violation was revealed. The good doctor had fingers the size of delicatessen baloneys. Overgrown patches of thick black finger-hair thinned somewhat at the knuckles to reveal deeply wrinkled knobs that could easily pass for malformed coconuts. The xx-large latex glove, stretched to the breaking point, only accentuated the immensity of his misshapen digits. Beneath the straining rubber, trapped mattes of coarse hair evoked the appearance of overstuffed laundry bags. By now, you could not have driven a nail up my ass with a ten-pound hammer.


Doctor DeathFinger is still talking but I am no longer paying attention to his rehearsed drone. His hand is on my shoulder as he guides me into position. I catch a glimmer in my peripheral vision; it is the jelly-like goo that will thwart any attempt to repel the invasion. His voice fades into the sound of blood rushing past my eardrums. The good doctor’s suggestion that I relax and just let it happen has fallen on deaf ears. The conundrum of the eternal struggle between the unstoppable force and the immovable object will be resolved in short order.


My decision to reschedule the appointment to a later decade came too late. As cold gel made contact with a region unaccustomed to such an assault, my deflating lungs reconfigured the phrase “never mind” into nevvaaaarrruuugggghhhhh! Doctor Torpedo apparently misread my grunting admonition as an expression of joy and proceeded to push my liver aside in what felt like an enthusiastic rush towards an unscheduled dental exam.


In a most unfortunate turn of events, Doctor BaloneyFinger decided that something didn’t feel quite right. I was ill prepared for most of what had happened up to that point. Now it appeared that my new best friend was pulling up a chair and getting comfortable. To make matters worse, he was engaging me in conversation more appropriate for a lazy afternoon fishing expedition.


How do you answer the question, “do you like sports” when there is a finger the size of a small monkey up your keester? I managed to blurt out an unconvincing “uuhhhharrrrrr.” Having reached a point where I could be humiliated no further, Doctor MonkeyFinger grew bored with my innards and withdrew. I was directed towards a box of flimsy tissues, each roughly the size of a dollar bill, and was given gratuitous instructions to clean myself “if I desired to do so” prior to leaving the room, as if I would choose to leave that place with slippery butt cheeks. He was nice enough to offer a conciliatory statement before departing, his uninspired exit in glaring contrast to the fanfare that accompanied his grand entry. I emptied the entire box of tissues in a futile attempt to wipe away the shame.


That was a few years ago and what a difference time makes. My new female urologist weighs in at maybe 90 pounds soaking wet and she has fingers like spaghetti noodles. On my last visit, I was halfway through an article in National Geographic before I noticed that she was done and heading out the door to her next appointment. Live and learn.