Despite the complicated nature of his everyday life, the decision that lay before him at this very moment was direct and simple: to snip or not to snip. The fact that the cut in question related to the ever-important ducts that lay within his genitals is what made this black-and-white decision a bit more, uh, sensitive.
Vasectomy. The word just hung there limply in their conversations like an ugly jacket, something to be avoided unless the weather turned and all other options in the closet were somehow unavailable. And yet here it was, this vasectomy, on the table and being considered as a real sartorial possibility. More than that…it was turning into less of an option and more of a mandate.
Her argument was direct and logical. They had two healthy kids who provided more than enough sturm and drang to beat the thought of more children out of them. So for years, she had poisoned her body with all kinds of chemicals in the name of birth control. She had taken on the responsibility of consuming the small round tablet that allowed her body to become a harmless but welcoming playground, where the risks of their activities were easily ignored (and much more fun than the standard slides and swings). But the years of scoffing at the laws of Mother Goddess and her retched storks had begun to take their toll. His wife didn’t like the changes that her body was being forced to endure in the service of their carnal thrills. Inevitably, there was a price to pay for this kind of avoidance, and she was sick of picking up the bill. It was time to go dutch on their sexual behavior, and he had built a gigantic debt over the years that only drastic measures could begin to overcome.
When raised in conversation, the idea of changing their approach did not please him. With military precision, he had planned a subtle counterattack, first through general avoidance (“Good idea, we’ll look at that next year.”), then through carefully researched intelligence measures (“Hey, this study says that men with vasectomies are four times as likely to suffer from early-onset dementia!”) and the occasional diversion tactic (“By the way, you look great in red, honey! Is that a new haircut?”). These moves provided short-lived gains, but ultimately proved futile.
Two events rendered him essentially defenseless.
First, an inexplicable wave of vasectomies had hit their social group over the previous 12 months. Time and time again, they would be out with couples who would proudly share their stories of genital mutilation (an unfair label that he hung onto for dramatic purposes, hoping it would provide a valuable weapon in conversation…it didn’t). This shocked him to no end. Here were normal couples, making the mutual decision to permanently alter their men’s anatomies, as casually as if they were choosing Verizon FIOS over Cablevision or deciding whether to get a dog for the kids. “Really?”, his wife would reply to their friends’ announcement, raising her eyebrows in mock surprise, then kicking him under the table just as he was enjoying his last bite of sirloin. He could recall at least 7 of these declarations, all of which ruined a good meal. There were the Goldsteins, the Mastersons, the Jacobsons, the Greenbergs, the Browns and the Krupkins. Mary Stein virtually cackled as she described the procedure one night, as her husband John sighed quietly into his Shrimp Fra Diavolo.
But this peer pressure was nothing versus the direct pressure that ensued. After conversations went nowhere, and they had endured another of their friends’ Saturday night vasectomy celebrations, his wife pulled out the trump card during the second half of the Jets/Patriots game. “After tomorrow”, she said, “I’m going off the pill.”
He stared blankly at the television screen for a moment, pondering the declaration as the Jets punt was blocked inside their own red zone. He turned and stared at her, slowly considering the implications before stuttering the words “But…but…what does that mean?”.
“Do the math, Romeo. I’m done, so you figure it out.”
Which he did. And despite the complexity of the problem, all equations led to three possible outcomes:
- Sex with condoms, which after nearly two decades of sheath-less friction seemed disappointing at best, tragic at worst
- Risk having another child, which somehow managed to trump #1 in its magnitude of negative implications
- The vasectomy
Of course, being a man with a healthy affection for the sanctity of his own privates, he resorted to the condoms at first. But as he expected, he had grown spoiled by the unfettered freedom of his previous exploits and quickly grew dissatisfied. As, it turns out, she did as well, which was the first thing they had agreed on in months. But she stayed steadfast in her insistence. He remembered a time in his youth when the thought of a beautiful woman bringing home a Costco-sized box of Trojans would have felt like New Year’s in Las Vegas. But now, the reality felt more like penance of a sort, the mega-pack’s promise of compromise taunting him like a gluten-free brownie.
Seeing the vasectomy-or-bust signs in the air, he tried one last desperate attempt at reason. He found his wife sitting in front of her computer one afternoon balancing the checkbook on Quicken and had what he thought at the time was a moment of true inspiration. “Honey”, he said cautiously, “do you see this computer, and how important it is to our daily life?”.
“Uh, sure” she replied, barely lifting her eyes from the spreadsheet.
“Well, now think of the computer as representing our sex life. Taking the pill is like changing the operating system. Sure, there’s a bug or two that might pop up from time to time, but if there are any major problems it’s simply a matter of changing the software.”
She stopped typing and lifted her head, lines of consternation forming on her forehead, but he plowed on.
“Now, a vasectomy is something different. A vasectomy is like changing the hardware. And if something goes wrong with the hardware, it’s all over! You’re throwing the computer out! And then you’re either living without a computer, or you’re getting an entirely new one! You see what I’m saying?”.
She looked at him silently for a moment, reflecting a level of disgust and disdain previously seen only while watching episodes of Real Housewives of Whatever. Just as he began to open his mouth to speak, she cut him off. “In all my years, I think that’s the dumbest thing anyone has ever said to me. Congratulations for that.” She rose from her chair and turned to face him. “And by the way, I have a headache tonight. And I’m going to be really tired tomorrow. And the day after that. And likely the rest of the year. Have fun!” She left the room, walked to the adjoining kitchen, and lifted the overflowing bags from the kitchen trash container. She dragged the bags to his feet, stood tall and handed him the partially dripping hoard. “Tie these up, and take out the trash”, she said, and turned away to begin the long, slow march up the stairs to safety in solitude.
The urologist was able to see him two weeks later.
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