Achtung Baby
The last time I got hit roundly in the crotch was 5 years ago. I remember it vividly; my son was reaching for something on the shelf and my privates just happened to be in the way. It felt like a Nazi bayonet being shoved up my abdomen and I went down like a peasant paying tribute to a king. I remember vowing through gnashed teeth never to let something like this happen again.
Tough luck. I woke up this morning to the vibration of a different alarm clock, one in the form of a toddler’s heel crushing my bagpipes. My three-year-old daughter, sleeping beside me and perhaps dreaming of football, shifted in her sleep and accidentally hit me in the babymaker. I woke up the way they do in the movies when an actor has a terrible nightmare and bolts upright to the sound of clapping thunder. Except the lightning was in my bladder, my shriek as dull as the gray morning.
“My balls…!!!” I managed, clutching the family jewels to make sure there were still there.
The pain was like a killer tsunami. It began as a wave of unbearable hurt, much like watching an Adam Sandler movie. I assumed the fetal position and made some distant connection with my feminine side as the anguish gained momentum, looming large and bitter, making me wince and wish I’d written my last will and testament. I was engulfed in such a paroxysm of pain, it’s all that kept me from consulting the dictionary to check what “paroxysm” means.
My wife tried to help me by giving me a forlorn look and some words of consolation. Not that I could hear her; I was too busy trying not to drown in my own drool.
The pain eventually subsided and the sun came out. I gave up concentrating on dancing sheep and my glowing inner core. I turned to look at my still-sleeping daughter, wondering whether I should wake her and tell her how close daddy had come to enlightenment.
Any annoyance or remaining pain simply flushed away at the sight of my snoozing child. It’s hard to be angry when faced with a purring baby, especially one that smells like milk and morning sweat. I’ll miss her when she’s old enough to have her own room and Dora-themed bed sheets.
Parenting. I guess the occasional whack in the groin is worth it.
Fitness Test
This is an old post. I don’t know why it’s not on this blog; perhaps I forgot to migrate it when I updated my website a few years back. No matter – the timing is great. Not only is my wife egging me to join her on the treadmill but I’m also in need of a blog update after being inactive for so long. It’s cheating, I know. But this is a golden oldie. Indulge me.
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How to find out whether you’re fit or not?
Easy: go run in one direction for 20 seconds.
Done? OK, how do you feel?
If, like me, you experience shortness of breath, shooting pains in your shins, and generally feel like dying at the mere thought of running for 20 seconds then you, like me, are definitely out of shape.
Once, my wife and I went to the bank to pay a traffic violation fine. The security guard informed us we needed to present a photocopy of the violation ticket to the teller. We didn’t have a photocopy. I looked at the wall clock – 15 minutes to closing time.
I asked the guard where the nearest photocopying machine was. Somewhere down the street, he mumbled. Great.
So I left my wife and made a dash for the photocopy shop before the bank closed on us. At first, I walked briskly. No need to panic, I told myself. It can’t be that far.
I was right; it only took me five minutes to get there. I whisked myself to the counter and presented the ticket. Unfortunately, the owner was busy trying to figure out certain photocopying settings and, with her back to me, her head buried in the machine, she told me to hang on a sec.
I’m a polite guy and I hate rushing people. But “just a sec” turned into at least a minute. I started getting antsy. The bank would be closed in less than 10. I’m a paying customer – I’m not forking over P1.75 for this!
Soon enough, however, she photocopied the ticket. I bade farewell and returned to the street which suddenly seemed strangely long, as if stretched by unknown forces, warped forever in every direction. The time was about 2:55… I knew that a brisk walk back wouldn’t cut it.
So I ran.
Well, it was more of a fast jog than a bid for Olympic gold. But those 20 seconds of sudden energy were all it took to make me realize that 20 seconds was all I was gonna do. For not only were my shins exploding into tiny fragments with every pounding step but my belly was climbing out from under my t-shirt making people on the sidewalk wonder how on earth a man so skinny could actually have a gut the size of an American football.
I stopped before my heart crapped out on me. If the bank closes, the missus won’t be happy. But at least I won’t need bypass surgery. I turned a corner, breathing as if on Mars, and saw the bank in the distance. The security guards outside were craning their necks in my direction.
What, you’re gonna close? This very minute?? I began to pick up speed.
When I got to the bank the guards courteously opened the front door, which is just as well because I would’ve careened right through and had a spasm on the marble floor. I managed to find my wife, thrust the photocopy into her hands, and watch her scram to the teller while I curled into a sweaty ball on a nearby chair.
Fitness First beckons.
Me
Writer, designer, father of two, husband of one. Armchair theologian. Inconsistent blogger and photographer. Still, I try.Tweets
