This I'm OK losing...Halfway through another week.  At work, we refer to this as “workweek thirty-one.”  Not sure about you guys, but all I can think about when I see that number is the fact that, somehow, we’ve made it more than halfway through the year of Our Lord two-thousand and nine.  Think about that; more than halfway.  It boggles.

Today I had a small cyst removed from my left leg.  I’ve had this thing since high school (when it was much smaller, about the size of a BB),  but in the last five years it’s grown a little too large for my comfort.  So, after talking to one reluctant surgeon (why remove it if it’s not causing me pain or suffering?) I found one who was willing (you wanna get cut?, OK) and went in today for the super-fast super-easy procedure.  The only thing is, with me, anything involving my own blood or “fleshwork” is always a trial.  Why?  Because, as manly as I consider myself to be… when I’m personally involved in the gore, it’s almost a sure bet I’m going to want to faint.

No joke.  It’s happened almost as often as I’ve been exposed to personal carnage, however controlled the environment.  It happened when I had an ingrown toenail cut out as a teenager; they had to go old-school that time and break out the smelling salts to bring me back out of the ether.  It happened when I split my head open diving into a too-shallow springs.  It even happens, to a much lesser degree, anytime I have to give blood (I can feel the symptoms coming on, but they never fully manifest).  Here’s how it goes down: First, I begin feel a bit “off,” disconnected.  Next, I begin sweating; just a sheen of perspiration to start but soon enough turning into full torrents of gym-worthy sweat.  Finally, I can actually feel the blood draining from my head and face – to the point where I eventually realize: “Uh-oh, this ain’t gonna end good unless I lie down fast.”

Anyway, I’m familiar enough with my reaction in these situations that I now warn the doctors in advance that I’m a lightweight.  Universally, they seem to appreciate the heads-up.  Today, the doc smiled and said, “Yeah, a typical man.  Males have a much harder time with it than do women, for whatever reason.”  Humph.

In the end though, I bravely maintained consciousness (mostly by choosing to not even watch the procedure, lest I see any messiness and completely lose it).  And, after about fifteen minutes of sweating and metered breathing while I felt my skin being tugged and heard tissue being snipped with scissors – it was all over.  I had to recline fully on the little doctor’s table and concentrate on not passing out.  I tried singing a song in my head to take my mind (and ears) of the hacking and snipping that was going on in my filleted leg.

OK, so I’m a wimp.  I just can’t handle it.  Goodnight.

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