No, I wasn’t visiting the zoo. I was in a gas station one Saturday afternoon, when I spied a elderly gentleman with the largest, um, scrotum, that I’ve ever seen. He was wearing loose sweatpants, either for his comfort or to hide his unfortunate condition (probably both), and he was hobbling around quite pitifully with a bulge the size of a volleyball between his legs.
Clearly, this man was enduring an uncomfortable and potentially dangerous medical condition. And since I have several male relatives with testicles, I’ve been married before, and I’ve read blogs on the Internet, I obviously know everything there is to know about nutsacks. I even go to the doctor sometimes, and he’s a boy, so I’m basically an MD myself.
So that’s why I offered my expertise, along with a healthy dose of empathy, to this poor suffering man.
“Wow! That’s a giant scrotum you have there!” I thought this was a good way to open up the conversation.
Dazzled by my clever observation, the man stammered to reply. But before he could get a word out…
“I bet it’s sooooooo uncomfortable, you poor thing!” There’s that empathy I was talking about.
“Well, um, a bit” He seemed surprised that I had noticed! I bet no one ever notices his impressive nugget pouch, obvious though it seems to me.
“You should do something about that”. Ah, my segue into the intensely personal, medical part of the conversation. “What is your doctor going to do about it? Are you having that removed?”
“Ah, well, um, next month I have some tests” Poor thing, his elephant balls were so uncomfortable that he was having a hard time explaining the details of his condition to me. I’d have to dig a little more to get him to open up.
“My cousin’s coworker looked just like you. Same condition, I’m sure. And his scrotum eventually burst and he died a horrific, agonizing death. There was blood and testicle juice everywhere! His wife said it left stains on the carpet that are a constant reminder… Anyway, my doctor would do something sooner than next month! I think you should get a second opinion, maybe have an emergency procedure this weekend”
Well, finally, that seemed to get his attention! The man’s eyes went large and round (still not as large and round as his swollen danglers).
I continued my analysis of his personal medical condition. “You know what I think? I bet there’s two of them in there” I announced this insightful revelation loudly enough that other gas station patrons could chime in and agree.
And since I could see them anyway (through his clothes) I went ahead and gave the distended genitals a pat. “Awww, yeah, they’ve dropped!” I declared. “Make sure you give your doctor a call TODAY. They’re going to explode any minute now… Well, good luck!”
I figured I had made my point.
WAIT A MINUTE, you say. HOW DARE YOU. THAT WAS SO RUDE, THOUGHTLESS, AND OUT OF PLACE!
Really? Is it? Is it rude to comment on people’s bodily and/or medical conditions? Is it thoughtless for a random bystander to offer unsolicited medical advice? Is it “out of place” to touch someone’s body? I mean, are you telling me he didn’t want his burgeoning elephant balls to be woman-handled right there in a public location?
You’re absolutely right.
I have manners, at least to a reasonable extent, and common sense, and normal human empathy. I didn’t say or do any of those things. You want to know what I actually did? I smiled, avoided staring at this poor man’s unfortunate crotch area, and offered to let him go ahead of me in line.
I didn’t even try to frighten him with my second-hand tales of testicular disaster (I don’t actually have any of those).
I trusted that he was aware of his condition, and was probably seeing a medical professional more knowledgeable and skilled than I. My amateur medical advice and speculations would not be helpful to him.
And guess what. They’re not helpful to pregnant women, either.
Don’t comment on the size of our stomachs.
Don’t touch our stomachs.
Don’t remind us that we must be uncomfortable. Because duh. We know that.
Don’t take it upon yourself and your stupid imaginary x-ray vision to diagnose twins or triplets.
Don’t insist that you know our due dates better than we do.
Don’t advise us to seek medical care. Um, we’re on it. Probably. Or if not, still not your concern.
And FOR THE LOVE OF GOD stop telling us about your friend’s neighbor’s husband’s sister-in-law’s fourth cousin whose uterus exploded one day because she didn’t listen to a random bystander in Walmart.
Ginormous nads, pregnant bellies, a growth on a stranger’s forehead… I don’t care what it is. It’s not your business.
If you must open your mouth, offer a compliment. Let the person go ahead of you in line. Chat about the weather. Or simply tell them to have a great day.
On that note, have a great day. But do email me if you require a diagnosis of any sort.