My day began like any other.
Olive, my life partner, had already left for work, having laid out my outfit for the day.
I'd just stepped into my Calvin Klein cotton stretch low rise trunks as I turned to gaze at my reflection in the full-length mirror.
They didn't feel quite as snug as usual. Then I saw the problem. My testicles appeared to be missing.
I went into full-blown panic mode, OMG, think man think ... when did you last see them? How far could they have gone?
Had they vanished overnight or had they been disappearing, incrementally, over time?
Green tea, that's what I needed, something to calm the nerves. I finished dressing in my carefully chosen ensemble of coral Chinos with a lemon and lavender paisley shirt and leather loafers, no socks. My nutless Chinos now resembled a drop-crotch style of pant.
Olive would never approve of such a "gangsta" look.
Come hell or high water I had to find my balls.
I called work to advise them I would be taking a personal day.
Could Olive possibly have a hand in the mystery of my missing man parts?
I decided a search of the house was in order. I checked everywhere but came up empty handed or should that be empty-glanded?
I did manage to locate my guybrow tweezers though, Olive must have swiped them to pin-bone the salmon.
Had Chintz, our Labradoodle, buried them in the backyard or, mayhap, they'd been sucked down the plug hole the last time Olive and I had taken a vanilla and pear-infused bath.
I had no option but to broaden the search. They could have popped out during a vigorous spin class at the gym or were, perhaps, violently expelled whilst I was performing a downward dog at hot yoga, rolling away like shrivelled tumbleweed.
My first stop was the local police station. Humiliated, I shuffled up to the front counter and asked if anyone had handed in a pair of gonads. The sympathetic officer kindly offered to check. Upon his return, he informed me they had an abundance of spines, a few lost nerves but no nuts.
I shared with him my theory that they may have been stolen and that I was open to being dusted for prints. He assured me that wouldn't be necessary and went on to say that, like spines, testicles usually did a runner when overwhelmed by societal or domestic peer pressure, with many returning, unharmed, when they no longer felt threatened.
I should have just rung Olive and asked her outright if she'd taken them ... but that would've required more balls than I currently had.
What was a bloke to do ... was I even a bloke anymore?
I know that sounds shallow and simplistic but what happened to the "me" of 15 years ago? Standing hairy chested and shirtless at the BBQ with a stubbie in one hand and a pair of tongs in the other, turning snags and T-Bones.
Now I wear an apron over my waxed chest and I'm nursing a glass of Merlot while I butterfly the chicken and chargrill lettuce.
Had I made those changes on my own journey toward contentment and personal growth or had they been made for another reason?
And why were my acts of good manners and old-fashioned chivalry constantly misconstrued as demeaning to women?
I decided then and there that any future changes to myself would be made by me, for me.
In a world that preaches both tolerance and acceptance, is it fair that I submit to constant requests for change?
Just then Olive phoned to remind me to pick up champers and candy for our weekly "Wax and Snax" night. I confidently informed her that I had decided to grow back my chest hair and, furthermore, start a support group for guys called Menapplause.
I rushed home to shower and moisturise ... that Nivea Men Creme is an indulgence I'm happy to maintain.
I walked past the mirror and gleefully saw that my junk had found its way back to my trunks. #reliefinabrief. I'll be keeping the Calvin Kleins too.
As for Olive ... she may change her mind, the only one she has a right to change, but she won't change mine.
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