As my cousin David would say, I "took" a surgery this week. After years of horrible monthly events that led to at least two days on the sofa and more Advil than any human should ingest on a regular basis, I finally let the doctor do something about it in an effort to prevent more drastic hysterectomy-like measures. The surgery itself was no big deal, but all the drugs made me really sick for a couple of days. Three days later, I'm still tired but on the mend.
What I've found amusing since the surgery is the reaction of men who hear you had surgery to deal with "the girl parts." They'll start off by politely asking, what did you have done? To which I reply, girl stuff. The hands immediately go up, the international sign of SAY NO MORE. I find this so funny! I mean, for one thing, do they remember they all once LIVED inside the uterine vessel? Not to mention they've spent much of their adult lives trying to get a certain part of themselves as CLOSE to said vessel as humanly possible. So why all the squeamishness? I've decided the girl parts are only appealing to them when they are functioning properly. Any indication of malfunction is a signal to them to RUN as far and as fast from the trouble as they can.
My husband is definitely the exception to this rule. As always, he wanted every detail. This is the guy who begged to be allowed to watch two C-sections. If possible, he'd have been in the gallery with a box of Junior Mints watching this week's proceedings if they would've let him. My friend Debby puts it best: He ain't right.
