Freaking Murphy and his law. Piss me off. The day after I get my vasectomy I go on a first date with a contender. The date is rolling along perfectly. After mutual chemistry is established and a few glasses of pinot are imbibed, the inevitable discussion begins—one I should have prepared for.
“So, do you have any children?”
“Me neither. I really look forward to having one.”
“Oh, yes. I just turned forty, so we’d better get moving. Ha, ha!”
“I think I only want one, though.”
“How about you?”
“I turn fifty this year.”
“Really? You look great for fifty.”
“You’re too kind, half blind, and you have a lovely behind.”
“Yes, I am. Say, should we get some dessert?”
“What a minute, mister. You didn’t answer the question.”
“Which question was that?”
“Are you anxious to have children?”
My friends, even the female ones, assured me that it was unnecessary to provide full disclosure concerning my reproductive abilities early in a relationship. Still, I’m an unskilled liar and in the off chance this relationship grows into something substantial, once the deception is exposed, I’ll be hosed.
“It’s funny that you ask.”
I could see her mind search through the possibilities:
· He already has a pregnant wife.
· He’s gay.
· He lost his testicles is a horrific fence hurdling accident.
· He has herpes.
“I had a vasectomy … yesterday.”
What pretty shades of pale she turned.
“Yep. That’s why I’m walking gingerly and drinking excessively.”
“Why would you do such a thing?”
“Because I don’t want to be raising children at this point of my life.”
“I avoid saying never.”
“So, you’d be open to having it reversed, right?”
Holy shit! I wonder what the record is for the quickest vasectomy reversal. If I showed up at Dr. Snip’s tomorrow and asked him to put Dumpty back together again, he’d probably Dexter me. I wasn’t having second thoughts, but I liked her. Surely, there’s a compromise, which doesn’t involve reopening my wounds.
“Doc says my gun’s still loaded for up to six weeks, so we’d better get busy.”
“Look, you can still have children.”
“Who would be the father?”
“You could select a donor.”
“What about your genes?”
“They’ve served me well. Best I keep them.”
“That’s a pretty selfish thing to do, don’t you think?”
“Agreed. It’s also prudent. Kids require and deserve more attention than I am willing to give. A house of self-sufficient felines and artificial plants is my limit.”
“So, if we fall in love, you’ll consider having it reversed, right?”
“I hear the raspberry torte is legendary here.”
There had to be an equal likelihood that my first post-vas date would be an infertile woman, right? Or, maybe one who already had her children. Nope. I find fertile Myrtle, aching for seed. There’s womb at her inn and my bus is empty. Sorry, my sweet. F you, Murphy.