Blogging About My Husband’s Balls
Okay, I’ve been admonished that writing a post about someone else’s balls (like my husbands vasectomy) ‘s off limits for my blog. Even balls that are near and dear to my heart. “Pleeeeeaaaaasssseee? May I please blog about your balls? I’ll be gentle!” (Yes, those balls, but don’t tell anyone because we’re not talking about it. Balls deserve air time, too!) I had to ditch my life-long birth control pill habit when I got my breast cancer diagnosis. “No more hormones for you!” said the Soup Nazi. You can fill in the dots about where this post is going, because I’m not allowed to talk about it. Something about sensitivity when it comes to balls. Boundaries, people! Filters!
I would be super flattered to have someone interested in the magical purpose of my balls, if I had any, and make medical appointments just to honor the balls. At least I’m still interested in the balls at all! Some people lose all interest in the balls in their life. I don’t have to point out that I’ve been talking about my lady parts for months now without blushing or with so much as a nod to balls. I’ve had people thinking about my boobs for months. Surely a few days devoted to someone else’s balls isn’t too much to ask? Or that I’ve pretty much hung myself out there (pun intended) with respect to whatever it is that enters my odd mind to share with friends and strangers, and much to their chagrin, family.
So, since I’m not allowed to talk about any particular balls (or my husband’s vasectomy), let’s just talk about hypothetical balls. We have all heard the stories about how men can be such weenies when it comes to anything related to their balls. We have all witnessed a man get kicked in the balls and the immediate eyes popping out of their sockets that ensues for what seems like ten minutes. “You don’t have balls. You have no idea how much it hurts!” Yes, this is true. I just have to say on behalf of all women (who have not had balls at any point in their lives- don’t want to be unmindful of our transgendered friends) that we, as a race, seriously don’t understand how a doink on that special sack could be more painful than any pain known to human beings worldwide. It’s not that we don’t believe you, but we sort of don’t believe you. It seems like histrionic hysteria that conveniently can never be independently verified. Other world unseen scrotal preciousness. It’s like Leprachauns or Santa Claus.I have never had to test this hypothesis out, but let’s just say that I’ve been thinking about what would happen if I hypothetically had an opportunity to observe how someone acted related to medical interest aimed at disarming the balls of their pro-creative abilities, shall we say. That is not to say that any of the magic related to the balls would be diminished. No one is saying that. I’m just saying that this should be an interesting weekend. I mean, that’s what I would say if I were allowed to talk about it. Which I’m not.