The Moment

For every married man there is “The Moment:.” It may happen early on, perhaps when you say “I do”, or it may occur later, such as when you stay out just a bit too late with the guys and you get that look of disgust from your wife when you wake up at noon smelling like a distillery.
It is the moment where you say to yourself, “My life has truly changed, and it will never be the same again.”
My moment happened about a month after I got married. I was driving at about 85 mph on the Ocean Parkway. My destination was a laboratory in the middle of Suffolk County that needed to perform a fertility test on the small specimen cup of my own semen that was now being kept warm between my legs as I squeezed them together like some bastardized mother hen protecting her eggs, or in my case, semen.
A little background is in order here. I married at the age of 40, my beautiful wife is 39. There are two reasons why I must say she is beautiful. One, I truly believe that she is, and two, god forbid she ever reads about this story, I want her to see something positive.
Prior to getting married I was a devout bachelor. Many a time when confronted by a friend or family member who would inevitably ask “Why don’t you want to get married?” I would gleefully reply “ I do what I want, when I want, and how I want.” Personal freedom was my mantra, independence my religion.
But like a lot of guys who thrive in this life, the drinking got a little crazy, the hangovers a bit too prolonged, and yes, the trashy women I met at clubs and bars became far too tiresome. I wanted something meaningful, I wanted kids, blah, blah, blah, you get the point.
So, I meet my future wife on a blind date, we fall in love, and in a little more than a year we are married. Now, I should have realized how different my life was when I agreed to get married on a Football Sunday. But again, I was stubborn to accept when “The Moment” had occurred.
As I said before, I want to have at least one child of my own. I have a wonderful step-daughter, but any guy who tells you that he doesn’t want to take at least one shot at having a child of his own is a liar.
So being 40, and with my wife approaching that magical number, our chances aren’t as good as couples in their 20’s, they aren’t bad, just not as good. After trying for only a couple of months with no success my wife ordered, I mean convinced me, to see a urologist just to make sure that my boys could swim.
My wife, of course, like most women, is a planner. She is organized, meticulous, and unfortunately for me, a bit of a worrier. I say unfortunate because in contrast I am lazy, a habitual procrastinator, and laid back to the point of indifference on many issues. Opposites do in fact attract.
Reluctantly, I made the appointment. My doctor takes a quick look at my equipment, ultra-sounds my kidneys and hands me a sterile specimen cup and a prescription for a fertility test. He then leaves me half naked in the examining room, in full turtle mode with instructions “You can’t leave us a specimen, find a lab, then you have to bring it to them, they will call me with the results.” Thanks Doc. Thanks for the freezing fucking hands too.
So I contact my insurance company, one of the largest in the country, aren’t they all? And try to find a lab that performs fertility tests. After dealing with an automated voice that offers no help, I find a list of labs on my insurers’ web site and begin a task that sounds so simple, but alas is surely not.
First of all, labs do not answer the phone. Not sure why, maybe they are all very scientific anti-contact types, maybe the budget can’t pay for a receptionist, but for some reason they all have answering machines with info on the location of the lab, how to get results, everything it seems except the answers to two simple questions. Will you take my sperm? Do you take my insurance?.
After days of phone calls I can find one, that’s right one lab that will do a fertility test that is within an hour’s drive of my house. Why an hour you ask? Because after one hour, I have learned, the little guys die off.
But I have to repeat this. One lab, in all of Long Island, that would take insurance from the second largest insurer in the country. Quickly I am changing from a conservative republican to a whiny liberal that demands a public option and affordable health care for all.
The receptionist, incredibly they had one, then gives me the rules, which are: 1. No sex for 72 hours prior (I have had many a drought while single, piece of cake), 2. Sperm and sperm only (No lubricants or other bodily fluids), 3. Sample must be delivered within one hour of “collection” ( The lab is a forty-five minute drive), and 4. Keep the sample at body temperature.
The last rule prompted this exchange.
Me: Well, my body temperature is 98 degrees.
Reception: I am aware of that
Me: It’s November in New York
Reception: Uh huh
Me: To “collect” it, it has to leave my body. I am not putting it back in. How am I supposed to keep it at 98 degrees.
Reception: (Sassy): I don’t know, put it between your legs I guess.

Which brings me to “The Moment.” After producing a very average shot, done through my first unselfish act of self-gratification, I am driving down the Ocean Parkway at about 85 mph. The plastic specimen cup secreted in my underwear, resting uncomfortably between my legs and below my scrotum, bare skin produces more heat I figured.
Why driving so fast you ask? even though the lab is 45 minutes away. I will answer that question with this one. If you were delivering your slowly dying seeds to a lab just off the LIE in the middle of Long Island, would you count on no sudden traffic jams to hold you up? I didn’t think so.
As I am driving I can hear the clock from "24" ticking away in my head, Jack Bauer never faced pressure like this. As I hit the Robert Moses Bridge, I spot a crew of about 30 highway workers doing the work of 3 as they paint the lines on the bridge for the hundredth time this year. Some clueless assshole with a coffee in one hand and a “SLOW DOWN” sign in the other one is getting pissed when he realizes that there is no way I am slowing down for anyone. "Step aside and take your eighth coffee break of the day fellas, my manhood is about to be tested and I am not going to be deterred!"
Right about now I am waiting to hear the sirens, and for once I want to get pulled over. I have the ultimate excuse, potential life is literally clinging to existence between my legs. Maybe I will get lucky and get a cop that is Pro Life, I could get an escort the rest of the trip.
Come to think of it, some sort of siren should have been provided, maybe in pink, or better yet, put a giant pacifier on top of my car, let the world know of my precious cargo.
I arrive at the lab with about 10 minutes to spare, rush in, pulling the cup from my crotch. I am expecting a full team of specialists, like those guys with a heart or kidney sitting in a “Lil Playmate” cooler, rushing out of a helicopter to bring an organ to a transplant.
But, as I enter the lab, 24 clock ticking away, this is what I get. Nothing.
No team, no cooler, not even a receptionist. A sign in sheet and a few empty chairs, that’s it.
Before I could go into a full panic, an employee walks by from behind the glass to tell me those ever-comforting words “Sign in, sit down, and we’ll be with you in a minute.” I freeze. Are they fucking kidding me?! Ok, here is a rule. If you are a lab that collects sperm samples you have to ready to take the sample the second I walk in the door. No “Sign in” nonsense, no “take a seat and wait” bullshit. I just beat off, stuck the result between my legs and broke about twenty traffic laws to get this to you on time and in compliance with your precious fucking rules. Take my sample and test it you sassy bitch!
Since I don’t move, she walks by a second time. “Have a seat, someone will be with you in a minute.”
“This stuff has a short shelf life”, I reply.
Fortunate for me, my spawn, and her general health, the tech came out right about that time. A few questions, some brief pedigree, and I was on my way. I said good bye to my swimmers, might have been a Nobel Laureate in there, maybe an NFL All Pro, then again, I might be getting rid of future sociopath or a daughter that resorts to stripping due to her hatred for me, it is a crap shoot after all.
Being that it was now about noon, and needing not only nourishment in the form of buffalo wings and a cheeseburger, but also needing to reclaim some semblance of manhood, I drove off to Hooters.
I may have finally reached “The Moment”, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy some greasy wings and an overcooked burger while admiring some beautiful women as they take out their anger at Daddy and hit stage one on the path to the stripper pole.