Being a gentleman of a certain age, one is expected to have a greater intimacy with one's body, checking for the troubling oddity in the balls that is often discussed in the men's magazines but never precisely explicated (what is it supposed to feel like if something's wrong? No one ever says). In the course of a regular exam last night, though, something seems off.
Now I sit at my desk, acutely and uncomfortably aware of the exact location and disposition of each testicle: how they rest atop one another like sleeping puppies, the nauseous alert with which they express their displeasure when then they are shoved or shifted, the relatively new thickness of my formerly thin thighs that crowds them into provoking discomfort, the tightness of my trousers. I set up a doctor's appointment, forcing myself to avoid Googling "testicular cancer," knowing that I'm probably just fine.