The "V" Word

War, pestilence, swarms of killer bees.

None of these can hold a candle to the sheer terror modern men reserve for the most horrible of horrible fates: The "V" word.

I refer of course, to the Vasectomy.

I brought it up the other day. We've got a couple of kids. They're perfectly adequate. And most importantly, we've taken them to Disney World, so we know that 1) we can't afford any more children, and 2) we certainly can't imagine why we'd want to create MORE sources of high-pitched whining. Some people go for surround sound. We're content with stereo.

The answer was emphatically NO, before even the question is halfway out. And continued to be NO for the next twelve minutes, despite the fact that I'd left the room to fold laundry, and he was talking to air.

I'm quite sure I'll never be able to understand this common reaction. Frankly I'm not much threatened by the analogous female procedure, considering I've pushed two rather large human craniums through, well, you know.

To the best of my knowledge, the corresponding female procedure goes something like this:

They slit you from neck to knees, lay open your ribs, and add rosemary and garlic to taste.

Then they make their way to your "geminal" region by way of a tube inserted through your ear, which winds it's way past spinal cord, lungs, pancreas, appendix, kneecap, etc (not necessarily in that order, but the scenic route nonetheless.)

Whereupon upwards of 17 doctors hover around a TV monitor discussing red globular things, or possibly professional basketball.

Then they use a large microphone pressed against the exact scientific place where cramps are generally the worst, and start snipping stringy-type things using the long tube which by then is conveniently poised "somewhere nearby."

They tie a bunch of stuff into little knots, which is a lot like crochet, only manlier, and then they let the nurse close.

See? That doesn't sound too bad.

But you suggest to a MAN that he get the equivalent of a 1-stitch episiotomy, and you'd think we'd suggested they lop it off completely.

I mean, I can see the likes of the Roman army off for decades conquering the better part of Europe, enduring hardship, misery, grisly circumstances, and generally being as tough as humanly possible. But I bet they'd have turned tail and RUN, had one of those villages sent out their urologist with a pair of cuticle scissors.

I made all the usual arguments. I was very informed and articulate. Frankly, I blame my ultimate failure on the cat. I caught him eyeing my husband with that unmistakable cat expression: "Don't do it, Man!" I believe the little fur-ball is due for shots, or something.

So, like my foremothers before me, I'll have to take the responsibility onto my own shoulders. Single-handedly guard my body from wayward sperm, using the least detestable methods on the market, which is to say: curlers and cold cream.

Or possibly resort to the lowest, sneakiest, most underhanded method of all:

"Honey, I think I want another baby, after all."