I don’t consider this particularly delicate or personal information, although it’s certainly as intimate as it really gets. Sometimes the strange social and psychological buildup of neuroses and taboos amuse me. And anyone who has read Arsebook will know that I don’t have much in the way of filters for my bodily functions and the work that is going on around them.
So anyway, I’m going for a vasectomy, just as soon as I can arrange a suitable time and find out a bit more about it (hilariously, the doctor I’m going to consult with about this next week is named Castrén, which is just … wow). Some of the people I have told about this have displayed a strange sort of shock and discomfort at the idea. Probably more at the idea that I am telling them, than anything else.
But really, I’m not all that conflicted about this. I have two amazing children and I am now at an age where I couldn’t really conceive (boom boom) of starting again with a third. If things go bad with Mrs. Hatboy and I for some reason take up with someone else and we decide to have kids, that’s just … okay, it’s technically in the bounds of possibility but I consider it so vanishingly (not to mention horrifyingly) unlikely at this stage in my life, that it’s not something I’m factoring into my plans.
And I would still be a near-middle-aged guy trying to raise a bunch of new kids, and that would still be a terrible idea considering my personality and temper. No, I’m done. Biological function fulfilled, expression of my love for Mrs. Hatboy and my desire to create little blendings of her genes and mine to send forward into the future … expressed. Gorgeously, flawlessly expressed.
Now, frankly, I just want to do Mrs. Hatboy without having to fumble around with condoms. I am thirty-six years of age.
So, it’s time.