WHAT WAS I THINKING?

What was I thinking? WHAT WAS I THINKING? So, yesterday I made a doctor's appointment. Now, I'm a fifty-one year old middle-aged white guy. At this point in my life, the appointments to see the doctor no longer include "torn ACL's" or "pulled ham-strings" or the endless ringing in my ears from too many "gun fights" at close quarters. I am still in reasonable shape and still, if I had too, could leap tall buildings but age has given me wisdom so I use the elevator to the top then jump to the other side. Get my meaning? Nope, doctor visits are reserved now for those things that men, women, no one of any real decorum, want to wander into.

So, I made this follow up appointment with the doctor. Sure, it had been three years but things like this, especially a man-in his fifties-still able to sit-scared of what she had already said, didn't want to rush in to. I needed some time to think and three years seemed appropriate. But it was time. I don't know what I was thinking. I thought she was just going to open the file and simply say "Oh, hi again Mr. Williams, I see its been over three years but sure, I don't think anything has changed, lets just schedule that "procedure" and you can be on your way. I knew I had not thought this out when they put me in a room with buttons, switches, garden hoses, and something that said "Craftsmen" on it.

I sat in the chair waiting. I was proud of the way I looked, my new Jerry Garcia tie and clean white dress shirt. I looked good. Then my eyes scanned the room. There was a Tupperware container with stainless steel things; things you see only on Thanksgiving when one is basting the turkey, soaking in a light blue liquid. Then I looked up. In the ceiling was a light; one of those fish eye lens aimed right at a strategic spot on the table. There were tubes of ointment on the counter. Maybe they were left over from the last guy? I thought. Then I said 'hmmm.'

She was real nice-the doctor. Yes, a 'she.' So was her six foot Russian nurse. Something about her, though, screamed in my mind 'gulag'. Now, you have to understand, she was just the luck of the draw three years ago when my primary doctor sent me to her. My brother and a dear friend who both counseled me back to life after these previous events, asked the same question--'a she'? Here's all I got to say-small hands. Yep, that's critical-especially in these 'procedures.' But, she was not going to budge. She had to repeat everything she did three years ago. It was like it didn't even happen! Like that whole thing just sailed out to sea, never to be seen again. My tie and starched shirt looked worn and used draped across the chair I was previously sitting in.

So men, I stand before you-humbled but proud. You see, at this age, as I walked out of the office, finding my car one floor down in the parking garage, I realized I didn't really care. There was a point of pride of what I had just accomplished. Younger men would still be up stairs, curled up in a little ball and the Russian would be tapping them with her size eleven boot say "git up ya sloppy pool of a man!" Nope, as I enter this stage of my life career, I greet it not with trepidation but with open arms! "Go on, take your best shot. I'm an 'Merican male, father, warrior of the faith, husband, grandfather, protector of the weak-you ain't got nothin' with those things in the Tupperware container. I laugh at you!"

So, sometime in the next few weeks, I will make an appointment and do the do. I will march in, the Royal Dragoon Guards playing in my MP3, my head up, my chest out, the word 'mommy' quietly clenched between my teeth.