I wasn’t surprised the doctor wanted to do a sonogram of my prostate. I was, however, surprised it was happening in the next 10 minutes. I just thought I might have a little more mental prep time before a girthy wand would be inserted into my bottom. At least buy me dinner first, geez.

I’ll tell you out of the gate, nothing awful was found. I’m very grateful for that. As we get older, our health really does become more and more precious. Also, I want you to relax and fully enjoy the story of my rump getting probed.

I went to the urologist because my urinary flow just wasn’t what it used to be. To be honest, what is — my hair, my posture, all fading fast. I don’t know what my bone density is, but I’m going to say: so hollow I could flap my arms and fly.

Before I get into the details of the sonogram, I should point out I’m no stranger to getting my prostate checked. For the uninitiated, the doctor will check it anally (and annually! I know, clever.) They have you bend over the exam table, give their gloved finger a courtesy bloop of goo (that’s a medical term) and basically go to town. I have one doctor who always says, “Bear down,” before he goes in. I’m still not sure what that means. I just pretend to do it and resist the urge to say, “YOU bear down.”

By the way, if you’re thinking “Bear down” are the two words that make me laugh, they’re not — keep reading. Although the idea of me saying “YOU bear down” to him is pretty fucking funny.

Once you’ve been digitally invaded checked out, you’re invited to clean up the gloopy mess with a few dry paper towels before putting your underwear back on for the soggy drive home. The most anyone has ever successfully cleaned up this mess is 64%.

Anyway, back at Sonogram Central — I was waiting on the table in the exam room in my little paper frock. Nervous about this test and even more nervous about what they might find. Enter our hero, the medical technician who would perform the exam. He was about 35, had a five o’clock shadow and a comforting, “we both don’t want to be here, so let’s get this over with” vibe.

He explained he wanted me on my side in the fetal position. He’d apply the gel and insert the wand to begin the scan. He said it shouldn’t be too painful and he’d try to get it done as fast as he could. He really managed to reduce the awkwardness that could have been there. I still think about him to this day. Only slightly romantically.

Before he got down to business, he fiddled around with the computer on his rolling cart. I just lay there turned away from him, staring at the wall. In these moments I find myself fixating on the minutiae in front of me — “How did that scrape on the wall get there?” “Does the flickering light in this room bother anyone else?” “CHRIST, WHEN IS HE GONNA STICK IT IN ALREADY?!!” Y’know, stuff like that.

When it was go-time, he applied the gel on me and I was pleasantly taken aback that it was WARM. Like intentionally and thoughtfully heated! It felt so nice I almost laughed out loud. While I was still processing this unexpectedly sensual experience, homie then uttered the two perfect words — “Sorry, boss.” Then WHAM, in the wand went!

I’ve spent a lot of time pondering this moment and I can’t think of anything funnier this guy could have possibly said before dropping the hammer other than “Sorry, boss.” I’ll be driving around in my car and think about “Sorry, boss” and start giggling out loud. I know he didn’t mean it to be funny and in the moment, it wasn’t — but even as I drove home in my soggy underwear after a 47% cleanup, it was already hilarious.

I didn’t get a good look at the wand he used, but I’m pretty sure it was the size of a rowboat oar. He kept swirling it around and around and around. C’mon bro, what are you doing in there, whipping egg whites?

Eventually he was done and I thanked him. I really did appreciate how he made something this intensely personal between two fellas who just met feel like business-as-usual. I wanted to shake his hand, but I for reals knew where it had been.

And I appreciated even more that they were able to give me the results while I was still there in the doctor’s office! Not having to wait and worry was worth the price of admission. Thankfully nothing serious was going on. Except for my lingering feelings for the sonogram dude.

I sincerely hope someday you’ll be driving around or gardening or tucking your children into bed and you’ll think of me in the fetal position with a warm bottom and the words “Sorry, boss” float through your mind.

If that happens, here’s two more words: you’re welcome.

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