bring the noyz

"I wanna get physical" - Olivia Newton-John

In 1978 Ms. Olivia inspired a twelve year old boy's early efforts to get physical with her invitation to "feel your way" near the end of Grease.

By 1981 when she expressed a desire to "let me hear your body talk", I was well practiced at honing my craft.

But I'm not talking about that now.

I don't mean "getting physical". This rambling is about "getting a physical", which is a medical procedure and nothing like the activity to which Ms. Olivia referred.

Unless you believe that the women who are briefly dressed as nurses in some of the quality entertainment The Wife and I sometimes watch late at night after The Boy is asleep really are nurses.

In which case I can't hardly wait for The Wife to finish her studies and earn her RN licencse.

But that's probably not the case. Getting back on topic. . .

Last week I went to my doctor for a physical examination. For the first time. Ever.

Forty is starting to stare me in the eye, it's just a few months down the line. I figured that it's time to really find out what's going on and begin to do any necessary penance for about 25 years (so far) celebrating the basic American values of sex, drugs, and rock and roll.

I think I quite responsibly concluded that along with the addition of The Wife and The Boy in the past couple of years, I also added a responsibility to take care of myself so that I can be around to take care of my family.

So, yes I know, it still took me over a year. Baby steps. . . baby steps.

So I made the appointment and off I went.

I an quite pleased to report to the world that I am in very good health.

It wouldn't hurt me to lose ten pounds or so, there's a slight touch of mostly seasonal asthma which I've always known about but never treated, but otherwise I am, according to my doctor, a perfectly healthy guy.

This was also my first time to have that checked. I am still a little young, but my father had prostate cancer a few years back. They caught it early. He had the surgery. He recovered fully and is doing great today.

As my father had it, there is an increased risk factor for me.

Got to get checked out.

Doing so reminded me of a day a few years ago, when my father had first learned about his cancer.

One afternoon I spent some time sitting at my parent's kitchen table with my father and his oldest brother. We were drinking a couple of beers and mostly I listened as my father and uncle recalled amusing anecdotes and told outright exaggerations about the people and places from their lives.

As my father's prostate cancer was the subject that had brought us all there, the prostate exam was inevitably addressed as a topic of conversation. I sat with wide-eyed wonder as my father and uncle went into much more graphic anatomical detail than I cared to hear about men in their sixties.

My uncle recalled one of his prostate exams saying, "I didn't know whether I should cum or turn around and punch him."

That comment has stuck with me, perhaps because it has forever cursed me with the image of my then sixty-six or so year old uncle having an orgasm, which was already a borderline issue because he frequently brags about his Viagra consumption, or maybe just because I thought it was really funny.

So I'm in my doctor's office. . .

I dropped trou, turned around, was asked to spread my legs slightly and. . . whoo!

". . . cum or punch him?"

I can tell you without hesitation my dear reader, that following my first prostate exam I am quite firmly on the side of the latter.

I think.
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