As you may remember from my visit to the gynecologist, there isn't much I find pleasant about going to the doctor. And I don't just mean the cooter doctor, I mean doctors in general. I usually look to such reputable sources as WebMD to take matters into my own hands and engage in a little self-diagnosis. I mean, sometimes it doesn't work—like when I had a really bad headache once and, using the WebMD symptom questionnaire, determined that I had a brain tumor. Or when I was having really intense abdominal pains and my friends tried to convince me it was probably just menstrual cramps. But I said nope. HIV.
This all brings me to today's visit to the urologist. I know what some of you are thinking, What's a urologist? Well, a urologist is a doctor who specializes in areas of the body such as the urinary tracts of males and females, as well as the reproductive system of males. (Thanks Wikipedia!) Your next question is probably, why the hell did you have to go to the urologist? Well, ever since I can remember, I've had this condition in which I frequently have to release the urinary liquid that has accumulated in my bladder. I'm constantly draining my lizard. I've seen many men about many horses.
Doctor: Do you sometimes start peeing before you can get your pants all the way down?
Me: Yes.
Basically, I piss a lot.
Now that I've killed any feelings of attraction you may have had towards me, allow me to elaborate. There are times when I literally have to pee every fifteen minutes. I can sit on the toilet, pee, wait five minutes, and then pee again. Aside from the obvious inconvenience this causes, there are certain accommodations my friends have had to make for me: I always have to sit on the outside of the booth at dinner, at the end of the row at movie theaters, and in the loser's car on a road trip—yes, they draw straws to determine who is unlucky enough to take me on as a passenger. The bathroom at work is referred to as my office.
In the time I've been writing this column, I've already used the bathroom twice and have to go again.
I finally decided that enough was enough. I was sick of the jokes, the ass chaffage from continual wiping, the hand dryness from repeatedly washing and drying them. Simply put, I was pissed (see what I did there?).
So today I went to a urologist, hoping that she could help me figure out why, exactly, nature was calling me so often. After twenty minutes of sitting in the waiting room (which housed such literary classics as What Your Poo Says About You and Little Monkey's Big Peeing Circus), I was taken back to a small room. As I gazed at the different bladder models the doctor had placed around the room, I silently wondered, Are they gonna stick a big tube up my pee hole? As more questions flooded my mind, the doctor walked in. She briefly introduced herself before she got straight down to business.
As much as I wish I could say that I made up the following conversations for their utter ridiculousness, they actually did take place.
Doctor: (pulls a handful of paint swatches out of a drawer) Alright, now look at these and tell me which color of yellow most closely resembles the typical color of your urine.
Me: Those swatches are pink.
Doctor: (looking at the swatches) Oh shoot! These are my vagina swatches, hold on. (Rifles through drawer some more) Well here's two, what happened to the third? It looks like I'm going to have to make another trip to Home Depot.
Doctor: Now, does it burn when you pee?
Me: Um, no.
Doctor: Be honest with me, I can only help you if I know all of the symptoms.
Me: I promise doctor, it doesn't burn when I pee.
Doctor: Do you wet the bed?
Me: No.
Doctor: Do you sometimes start peeing before you can get your pants all the way down?
Me: Yes.
Doctor: Have you ever wet your pants?
Me: Does it count if I was drunk at the time?
Doctor: No.
Me: Then no, I haven't.
She ended the appointment by giving me a homework assignment. Lady, seriously… I didn't do any homework in the six years it took me to get through college, what makes you think I'm going to start now?
Ultimately, I decided I didn't want to piss my life away… literally. So in between now and my next appointment, I have to write a "voiding diary," which is essentially a journal of how many times and how much I shake the dew off the lily, if you know what I'm saying. I've already started and I'd like to conclude this week's column by giving you a brief glimpse into my piss diary:
