Thank you sir, may I have another.

I was overdue, I admit. I realized back in late November that if I didn't get on it soon, I wouldn't be able to make it in by the end of January. And now here it was, mid February, and I had without question, failed to comply with my own self-imposed regimen of yearly "check-ups" with my chosen physician. Regimen to the extent that I had, over the past decade, at least tried to get in to the doctor's office once a year for a check under the hood, whether I need it or not. Recognizing this would be a habit that could easily be missed for a few years without due diligence, I made a mental note to drop in during birthday season--late January. A fairly easy mental Post-It note, if you will, that should be easy to keep track of. Now the importance of these annual visits were reinforced doubly by 1) the content of my daily work and my appreciation of their intrinsic preventative value, and 2) my awareness of my own mortality and the limited amount of time I may have on this festering globe to exercise the fullest extent of my Hubris and Hate.

(OK, a bit overboard with the shameless plug...)

My point is, I try to be a conscientious and diligent patient. And I suppose that given the fact that I had successfully quit smoking cigarettes after 20 years at my current physician's urging almost 14 months ago, it's safe to say that I was feeling a bit cocky. But the reality is, I'm a human male. And we never like to admit that we may be weak or infirm. And in order to avoid any unnecessary potential confusion regarding our virility, we tend to avoid doctorrs of any sort, like the plague. (Can I get a rim-shot, here?)

Now I like my doc; he's a capable, intelligent and professional clinician who performs his job with just the right blend of casual affability and dispassionate efficiency that I find comforting. When I'm talking about my health, I want someone who can give the me shit-- straight up without dancing around "delicate" issues, but with some decent customer service skills thrown in for good measure.

So I was particularly pleased this morning when I underwent my yearly (give or take) physical. Upon arrival, I was quickly ushered in from the front waiting room to the first exam room, and within fairly short order, put through all the paces: height and weight recorded; bone density, EKG, lung capacity and blood pressure all measured, then the obligatory blood draw and urine sample, all done in relatively smooth, conveyor-like fashion. While being run through the various stations, I had pleasant tete-a-tetes with the medical assistant who was completing her externship and on her way out to Kansas (for fuck's sake!!) while her fiance' finishes radiology school as well as the phlebotomist responsible for the collection of bodily fluids who was clearly not ready for someone as talkative and bantering as myself on a Monday morning. Perhaps she was out late singing Karaoke at Vito's with Claudio the night before.

So finally, after I've been appropriately poked, prodded and drained, I'm moved into the last exam room where I'll finally get to meet my preferred witch doctor for our annual chat about my slow, irreversible decline into worm food. Now I like this guy, really. I am a professional, and I realize that he is extremely busy, seeing who knows how many patients in various states of deterioration and trauma every day, so I really try to be considerate patient and keep my shit brief and to the point. And I get the impression he appreciates this because of the casual, almost fraternal manner in which we interact during the history and physical exam. It's a job: he's the doctor, and I'm the patient.

And so we go through the standard stuff: any problems with headaches, vision disturbances, dry skin, frequent urination, constipation, diarrhea, swollen glands, numbness or tingling in the extremities, changes in family history, sudden appearance of alien heads sprouting from the back of my skull,.... you get the picture. Then we do the ol' once over, where he visually inspects, and palpates if appropriate, every region, joint and appendage of my body. But since he's a professional, and I'm a patient, it's all kosher. (It helps that he's Jewish, by the way.) And eventually, he makes the never-spoken-of, but clearly-understood transition into the "hernia check." Again, very professional. He's the doctor <"cough">, and I'm the <"Cough"> patient. So it's all cool. But then comes:

-Well, you're 35 this year, and that's when I start doing the prostate exam.

-Yeah, I figured as much.

And this is where my doc gets serious points on the "bedside manner" scale:

Well, I'm sorry about this but I'm going to have to do a rectal. The good news is, I have small hands.

We share a good chuckle while he pulls on the surgical gloves, thankfully applying copious amounts of "surgical lubricant" before instructing me to turn around and grab the exam table. He tosses a box of Kleenex onto the exam table by my face and then began a quick lecture on the anatomy of the prostate, presumably to distract me mentally from the anal incursion which happened with the speed and precision of a bunker buster in the First Gulf War (remember that one, kids!?):

Do you know about the prostate (yeah, sorry about that). Well, it's an almond sized organ that is (push) normal,(poke) normal and (cuurrrl)normal.

And we're done. (And suddenly I don't have to piss quite so badly)

And so, because he's a professional, and I'm a patient, I stand back up, collect myself, and without thinking I grab a handful of Kleenex, hike my left leg up on the exam table and commence to wiping my ass clean of the slimey goo coating my nether region while confirming with Dr. Finger that I should schedule my follow up with the front desk.

In no time at all, he's stripped off the latex gloves sodden with my waste and petroleum jelly, tossed them in the garbage like some much dead skin sluffed off a snake in springtime and exited the room without another word. It was then, standing in the cool, sterile room with my surgical robe wadded up like a prom dress and tossed on the crinkled butcher's paper covering the pleather padding of the exam table, my leg cocked up leg a dog spraying a fire hydrant while I wiped my ass clean of K-Y Jelly, that I realized two things:

1) I think I finally knew what it felt like to be Catholic, and

2) I couldn't wait to call my good friend, the queer one who's had a crush on me since the first time we meet 9 years ago, and inform him that I've decided to start playing for the "other team."

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Oh shit, what am I going to tell FC???