Men, men, MEN!
This morning, as I bustled around getting ready for another day at the mind-numbing institution that is my job, I watched (well, listened to) one of my four (count 'em, four) Best of Friends dvds. This particular episode had to do with resolutions, with Ross resolving to try to do one new thing each day of 1999. Sadly, leather pants entered into his scheme. (Sadly for him, not for easily-entertained mooks like me).

When I got to work, I followed the oh-so-anal routine of setting up my desk for the day. This now includes checking my schedule on my brand spankin' new Sonly Clie.

I had totally forgotten about my massage with Giovanni this afternoon.

See, this is my 'new thing'. Being kneaded and prodded by anyone other than my girlfriend Claire and my girlfriend Terri (both registered masseurs) was something that never before entered my mind. Having my considerable bulk revealed to a guy who I'm certain will turn out to be a consummate professional is, quite honestly, squicking me out. I can't stop thinking about the running commentary as he works his way from my feet (acceptable) through to my hips (argh!), then up to my shoulders, which look like they've been transplanted on to me from some football player who's probably getting razzed as we speak in some locker room for having lily-white, girly shoulders.

"Man oh man, this chick has to cut down on the double Whoppers with cheese. I can literally feel the fat, it's like moulding clay! Gross....I'm glad her face is squished into this table, because I don't think any amount of imagery therapy could keep me from looking like I want to hurl right now."

Shit! I didn't shave my legs this morning. Oh great, the icing on the proverbial cake. I'm going to have to tip this guy very well.

~~~~~~~~~~

My annual physical was last Monday, except I shouldn't call it 'annual', since I bailed on the last two appointments because I was in the midst of a gargantuan self-esteem/self-image crisis. Still am, truth be told, but that's another story for another time with another person, more than likely one who charges $400 and hour and likes to doodle.

So, 18 months later I show my face at my doctor's office. Dr. B, bless him, lets my obvious truancy pass by him and concerns himself with the matters at hand: infertility and hypertension.

The high blood pressure is something I'm going to have to work on, but the infertility thing has now been laid directly at the feet of The Boy. I cautiously handed over two sample containers and a test order for the local lab downtown when I got home; I must admit, the response was not at all what I had been dreading. I suspect he feels there's nothing wrong with his little swimmers, and once he's out from under the cold, harsh glare of the doctor's suspicions, the worst of it is over.
Yeah, for him maybe...stay tuned.

Posted at 11:29 a.m.