After recently promising an increase in my blogging frequency, with the intent of an almost daily posting about something interesting, I have clearly gone the opposite direction lately.
This space has been silent of new content for over a week. This is not acceptable for a wannabe travel writing blogsite striving for a level of professionalism that hopes for a regular viewer-ship that is greater than my sister (who is expecting some form of remuneration for editing duties) and my wife (who views these posts only after sufficient whining on my part when the pain of reading it is at least slightly less than the pain of my merciless begging).
If I was getting paid based on my blog stats, the resultant income would only be beaten in poor performance by my 401(k) account.
While I would like to blame my recent lack of amusing stories, told with exceptional prose and style (YES, I am talking about THIS site) on computer problems, alas, this excuse was already taken by my Zen Master of Blog.
So then, how about an excuse that involves genital shaving, drug-induced unconsciousness and an implanted birth control device?
Beyond what I assume is some level of curiosity on your part to what the heck I’m talking about, you might first be asking what this has to do with travel.
Well, I have previously posted about the dangers of seeking emergency medical treatment in areas of the world where you might be as likely to see live barnyard animals wandering through the operating room as you might see a state-of-the-art MRI machine; this story discusses what can occur when you take care of these things closer to home.
When a hernia I have had for the last two years continued to enlarge to the point where some people pointing to the visible bulge in my pants, inquired as to my availability on Saturday night, I acquiesced to my doctor’s suggestion to get it treated (or alternately select a good porn name and go with the look).
My visit to the hospital began with an onslaught of staffers that resembled a NASCAR pit crew with needles being inserted, clothes being ripped off (hmmm, maybe I SHOULD have come up with that porn name), signatures being demanded and marking of incision sites with a felt marker (remember the story of that lady).
This was followed by a short gurney ride to the O.R. where the knockout doc said he was giving me something to help me relax. And the next thing I remember was a nurse calling my wife and begging her to haul me the heck out of there.
It wasn’t until I got home that I became brave enough to view the site of alteration. (While not admitting to being a total wimp, I have been known to faint at the sight of my own blood.)
It was then I noticed the shaved area extended from the incision site, which is up, above and to one side from the area that is “normally covered by a bathing suit,” and traversed far enough “south” that any further excursions would have required a mohel.
It was not a small matter to get over the shock of the smooth-shaven, nubile, prepubescent look on the right half of my Southern Exposure (as is what I understand is the fashion for certain people nowadays–to put a travel slant on the subject, I guess I had a semi-Brazilian).
But the left half still looked like the part of the Geico Caveman you don’t often see on T.V. and hopefully never will.
As to the comment about an implanted birth control item, at a pre-op visit the surgeon showed me the device that is used to contain the hernia and forever eliminate the out-of-place bulge. The patch, which is pictured to the left, looked to me as something typically used for another purpose.
Settling in at home, I was feeling amazingly good and without ill affects or any undue discomfort.
I really never knew my recuperative powers were quite so responsive.
That was up to about midnight when the surgical anesthesia wore completely off and I awoke to the distinct feeling that someone had just kicked me with great anger.
So I groped my way into the dark bathroom and began my self-applied, multi-day narcotic pain relief regime.
Finally, I feel much better, thank you for asking, except for a massive new crop of extremely itchy hair over an area my wife would prefer I quit scratching while in public. That, and a small bandage that is covered with enough clear plastic shipping tape to send myself via FedEx on my next travel adventure.
Can’t wait until they get to yank that off.
This is my explanation regarding my lack of blog posts of Short Trips, long trips, or even sidewalk trips (which, thanks to Ellen DeGeneres, now causes me to jog for a short distance as I intended to trip into a clumsy gait to keep from falling).
And while I am sure the shaving ordeal was simultaneously a source of great amusement for those present in the O.R. and a miserable chore as cutting a patch of thick, dead weeds for the poor person assigned the task, if I ever see they posted the event on You Tube, I will sue (or at the very least, finally get that porn name and demand royalties).