The Reaper At My Door
As hour two of Sunday's Jens Lekman concert started, I could only think of two things: 1. Do Swedish people really dance that badly?, and 2. Where's the bathroom? You see, for the last week or so, I have had to "go" constantly.
At first, I thought this might just be a by-product of getting old. I've never been in my mid-30's before, so how am I supposed to know how often someone that age has to pee? The rest of my body aches, why would my prostate be any different? I just accepted that I had the bladder of a 132 year-old nun and decided to move on.
I talked to another friend of mine who is the same age, and he said he was having the same problem. I hate going to the doctor, so I told him to go see a doctor and find out what I have. At the very least, I was hoping I had a tapeworm, since it's nice to have someone to talk to occasionally. I could buy him a little Brewer hat and take him to baseball games and such.
Finally, I relented, and today I went to see the doctor. When they asked for a urine sample, I just pulled out one of the samples that I keep in the trunk of my car. Who knows when it could have been from.
Even as I dreaded the exam which I knew was coming, there were more surprises. Apparently, for the first time in my life, my blood pressure was a little high. It wasn't fatally high, but I had moved out of the "circulation of a f'ing racehorse" phase to which I had become accustomed. Even when I started putting on weight, I could always fall back on the fact that my veins were golden. In that respect, I was deceptively fat. Chunky but fit.
So this was really a shock to find out that the innards are starting to go. My body's kind of like an old Ford Pinto - a little rough on the exterior, but the engine of a Ferrari. But now my doctor was telling me my spark plugs aren't firing the way they used to. I attribute this to my attempt to set the world caloric intake record from the beginning of the NCAA tournament to now.
As part of the exam, they made me step on the scale. The digital number that came up was a number that had previously been unknown to me. I quickly tried to calculate the weight of my boots, belt, wallet, phone, clothes, hair gel, and sandwich I had for lunch. Even if I was carrying a bowling ball in my pants (not unlikely, incidentally), I was still about ten pounds on the scary side. So either I'm fat or my tapeworm now weighs ten pounds.
During part of the exam, the doctor started asking some pretty personal questions. He asked if there was any blood in my stool. "No, not accidentally," I said. Then things got touchy:
Him: "Are you sexually active?"
Me: (Fighting off urge to make a joke) "Uhhhh, yeah."
Him: "With your wife?"
Now what the hell kind of question is that? I totally should have said, "No, actually with your wife."
Naturally, nobody wants to know the actual remaining details of the exam. They are what they think you are. I generally have an "exit only" policy for my rear, but it's really more of a guideline than a rule. I was hoping he'd find a t-shirt I'd been missing in there, but no luck.
As it turns out, I do have some sort of prostate/bladder infection. They sent me down to the pharmacy to get some pills that the pharmacist told me might make my eyes extra-sensitive to light. I threw the pills on the desk and yelled, "But they're for my grumpy wiener, not my eyes!" The cops then escorted me out.*
I just wanted to mention this as the beginning of the end for me. I'm heading downhill from here. Keep this post in mind when I am inevitably found keeled over dead while in line at the Culver's drive through. (Anyone who dies at a McDonald's runs the risk of becoming part of the menu.)
Sadly, there will be no telethon for people like me. It is the bladder infection victims who suffer quietly, often with their legs crossed, afraid to cry for help. When aid is finally given to these poor souls, it is often too late - and a mop and bucket on aisle 6 is necessary.
Fortunately, I hear there are pills you can buy online to help your wiener. I don't care if it takes months; I am going to hunt down one of these rare pill buying opportunities and turn my life around.
Oh, yeah - and the Jens Lekman show was good. Here's a song of his:
*-This did not happen.
At first, I thought this might just be a by-product of getting old. I've never been in my mid-30's before, so how am I supposed to know how often someone that age has to pee? The rest of my body aches, why would my prostate be any different? I just accepted that I had the bladder of a 132 year-old nun and decided to move on.
I talked to another friend of mine who is the same age, and he said he was having the same problem. I hate going to the doctor, so I told him to go see a doctor and find out what I have. At the very least, I was hoping I had a tapeworm, since it's nice to have someone to talk to occasionally. I could buy him a little Brewer hat and take him to baseball games and such.Finally, I relented, and today I went to see the doctor. When they asked for a urine sample, I just pulled out one of the samples that I keep in the trunk of my car. Who knows when it could have been from.
Even as I dreaded the exam which I knew was coming, there were more surprises. Apparently, for the first time in my life, my blood pressure was a little high. It wasn't fatally high, but I had moved out of the "circulation of a f'ing racehorse" phase to which I had become accustomed. Even when I started putting on weight, I could always fall back on the fact that my veins were golden. In that respect, I was deceptively fat. Chunky but fit.
So this was really a shock to find out that the innards are starting to go. My body's kind of like an old Ford Pinto - a little rough on the exterior, but the engine of a Ferrari. But now my doctor was telling me my spark plugs aren't firing the way they used to. I attribute this to my attempt to set the world caloric intake record from the beginning of the NCAA tournament to now.
As part of the exam, they made me step on the scale. The digital number that came up was a number that had previously been unknown to me. I quickly tried to calculate the weight of my boots, belt, wallet, phone, clothes, hair gel, and sandwich I had for lunch. Even if I was carrying a bowling ball in my pants (not unlikely, incidentally), I was still about ten pounds on the scary side. So either I'm fat or my tapeworm now weighs ten pounds.
During part of the exam, the doctor started asking some pretty personal questions. He asked if there was any blood in my stool. "No, not accidentally," I said. Then things got touchy:
Him: "Are you sexually active?"
Me: (Fighting off urge to make a joke) "Uhhhh, yeah."
Him: "With your wife?"
Now what the hell kind of question is that? I totally should have said, "No, actually with your wife."
Naturally, nobody wants to know the actual remaining details of the exam. They are what they think you are. I generally have an "exit only" policy for my rear, but it's really more of a guideline than a rule. I was hoping he'd find a t-shirt I'd been missing in there, but no luck.
As it turns out, I do have some sort of prostate/bladder infection. They sent me down to the pharmacy to get some pills that the pharmacist told me might make my eyes extra-sensitive to light. I threw the pills on the desk and yelled, "But they're for my grumpy wiener, not my eyes!" The cops then escorted me out.*
I just wanted to mention this as the beginning of the end for me. I'm heading downhill from here. Keep this post in mind when I am inevitably found keeled over dead while in line at the Culver's drive through. (Anyone who dies at a McDonald's runs the risk of becoming part of the menu.)
Sadly, there will be no telethon for people like me. It is the bladder infection victims who suffer quietly, often with their legs crossed, afraid to cry for help. When aid is finally given to these poor souls, it is often too late - and a mop and bucket on aisle 6 is necessary.
Fortunately, I hear there are pills you can buy online to help your wiener. I don't care if it takes months; I am going to hunt down one of these rare pill buying opportunities and turn my life around.
Oh, yeah - and the Jens Lekman show was good. Here's a song of his:
*-This did not happen.