Madonna

These lyrics from two different songs are running simultaneously in my head:
Like a virgin, touched for the very first time
Just like a dream you are not what you seem

Intro:

I woke this morning to my wife pulling the gun case out from under the bed; she is going to the shooting range today with a friend from work.  She went to "ladies night" last night with the same person and another friend.  I was grateful, actually, for the firearms diversion, as I'd been having a very awkward and graphic dream about virgins.

You could say I had my own ladies night out last night, population of two, which was so much fun it seemed like a dream, but was real, was not awkward, and would have been entirely PG-rated if not for the band itself.  I can honestly say I've never been to a concert where I left feeling like I'd just had sex without even being touched.
 
My date with the XX:

I went with a good friend to see The XX at the Paramount on Pine street last night.  They're British, and have been touring for several years, but at least as far as Seattle is concerned, they're at that sweet spot of rising fame: a solid medium size fan base, and then a healthy inevitable word-of-mouth growth potential; most people recognize their music from the radio, but not everyone knows their name.  Yet.

I'd never been to the Paramount before and it is stunning.  Broad entryways, ornate freizes and gilding, sweeping staircases, a completely unapologetic recreation of the olde, grande days of theater.  But the equipment is brand new; on either side of the stage, an elegant line of at least 20 speakers arches its way up the wall, diminishing in size as they ascend to the ceiling.  

The place was packed by the time the two cover bands were done and then The Show began.  Three figures rhythmically backlit in blinding white light in perfect time to a mesmerizing percussion sequence followed by what might be the song that has gotten the most radio play: Crystallized.  The next song softly backlit by a cherry-red glow so intense I could taste candy from my childhood.  After that, VCR, a dreamy blue song with roving spotlights.  Purple song.  Green and blue under-the-sea songs that evoked mermaids and sirens.  A song with greenish-gray swirling tornadoes - or UFOs touching down in a postapocalyptic dreamscape - and another lit by reflections from twirling disco balls that was like drowning in surreal starlight.

The visuals, clearly, were riveting, set off by the understated, husky, and perfectly complementary voices of the male and female lead singers.  But then: an intermittent, deliberate, teasing thump of low frequency sound waves that you could feel in your chest, a compression like a grenade going off, or like falling in love.  If they had pumped in the exhaust from aromatic candles, it couldn't have been more perfect.  It wasn't a concert, it was a full-scale seduction.

That's right: I'm in unrequited love with a band.  When, late in the evening, they confessed that they were coming to the end of the tour and needed to go home for a bit: a collective and heartfelt "noooooo" from the audience.  Oh, sadness.  Come back again soon, "The XX".  An entire city of  concert-goers pine for your return.

Now the virgins:

I dreamt about a girl who wanted to have a threesome with me and another guy.  The biggest problem - for me - was they were both virgins.  It took hours just to get past nervous talking to the point where I was kissing her, kissing him, directing her to kiss him.  And we were all still just standing around in the hallway of my house fully clothed.

I was living with my dad in a house by the waterfront in DC; he had gone to the train station to pick up some friends.  It was late.  I had been out at a singles mixer and had managed to come home with the two people least equipped to have a relationship with themselves never mind a menage-a-anything.

The girl was blonde, nerdy, curly hair, thin, talked a mile a minute, mostly nervous questions, and sat on the edge of furniture with the tiniest sliver of her ass, as if ready for flight.  Not my type really.  The guy was tall, dark hair, super quiet.  Other than the dark hair, again, not my type.

I found their attention and vulnerability, respectively, endearing.  The action finally began when after several hours of talking about the theoretics of sex and sexuality I got impatient and said, "look; it's not something you talk about.  It's something you DO," and offered to demonstrate french kissing.  Though I wasn't filled with desire for either one of them, I enjoyed being in charge and pushing them a little.

I steered everyone through my open bedroom door onto the bed, using my lips to guide the girl, my hands on the guy's belt, and started getting naked.  No sooner had the guy's pants come off then he disappeared.  I never saw him again, though based on the state in which he'd left I imagined it was either to the bathroom for some personal time or to avoid having something happen that he would consider embarassing (or more likely both).  The girl stayed at first but just as I'd de-knickered her, there was a knock at the door.  She dove to the floor as if taking cover from a grenade.

It was my dad.  He wandered in oblivious to the unfolding drama; the girl cowered at the side of the bed using her fingers as fig leaves.  As he talked, he bent down to tie his shoe.  The train was delayed he said, so he'd come home to grab his laptop so he'd have something to do, and he was heading out again, just wanted to touch base.  I felt enormous tenderness for him in that moment, and gratitude for the easy, nonjudgemental relationship we had.

He left, and I turned back to the girl.  In under five seconds she had managed to put all her clothes back on.  She perched now on the end of the bed in jeans and a soft blue and brown cableknit sweater.  She had a flashlight in one hand.  Would it be OK if she just asked questions?  Internally I groaned.  Of course, I said, what would you like to know?

The first thing she wanted to do was look at me naked in detail, which seemed bizarre to me since we had pretty much all the same equipment.  I obliged, lay back on the bed and assumed the missionary position, while she traced my body with the thin beam of her flashlight.  She acted both fascinated and slightly horrified at what she saw, peeking out at some of it from between her long, thin fingers.

Extended mix:

It's not a huge stretch to understand the clinical nature of my end-of-dream exam.  I went to my doctor's office on Thursday for a routine physical.  The nurse took five minutes to check my pulse, blood pressure, medical history, and discuss menopause.  Then I sat in a silly gown for forty minutes waiting for the main event.

Doc came in finally, checked my ear/nose/throat and then put me in stirrups.  Just as I thought I was home free, the doc finished up with an external pelvic and said, "hmmm".   While "oops" during surgery probably wins the award for the word you most don't want to hear while prone in a medical setting, "hmmm" isn't that great, either.

Had I ever noticed that the right side of my uterus was firmer than the other?  No, I had not.  I had however been working out a lot lately.   No, says doc, it's asymmetrical.  Maybe I've been working out the right side harder, I suggested.  Made doc laugh, which is kind of gratifying.  But she shook her head no.  That would be really hard to accomplish.  Maybe I'm just that talented?  Again, no.

So instead of putting me in the queue for a 3-weeks-wait for ultrasound, she ordered one the next day.

Friday noon, another day in a silly gown, first a pelvic exam exactly like in the movies and TV shows when the main character is pregnant -- only instead of a baby's heartbeat we're hunting for.... Tumors! This is followed by an abdomenal, also external, and honestly my favourite part of the whole thing: I get to see the negative space created by my bladder, gallbladder, kidneys and various giant blood vessels.  Finally it's time for the Dildo of Ultrasound*. 

*I give full credit to Julia Sweeney, of SNL Adrogynous Pat fame, who coined the term "Dildo of Radiation" in her heartbreaking and hilarious sendup of being treated for cervical cancer which she performed at LA's Uncabaret; excerpts from this series appear in one my favourite episodes of This American Life.

I can't say it was an unpleasant experience, although there's something surreal about  falling asleep for a moment while the very sweet and maternal nurse uses a piece of warm plastic to navigate your insides, and writes medical abbreviations like "transverse view" on a swirling digital Rorschack blot in which she claims to be able to see your ovaries.

Just saying.

This morning, an email notification from Group Health: I have lab & test results!  Just sign in!  To see them!  Doc had also ordered bloodwork as part of my physical, and a screen for a biomarker associated with uterine cancer.

The good news?  My cholesterol has dropped twenty points in the last five years.  All my other values have dropped too, with the exception of triglycerides, which stayed stubbornly the same.  From which I conclude that working out a lot more can help, but it's not a magic spell that wards off regular consumption of bacon or the fact that I have been known to disappear a pound of steak in a single sitting.

My ultrasound result is in too:  several fibroid tumors are sharing my girl parts, ranging in size from tiny to less tiny.  Conclusion by the medical establishment: I have an enlarged fibroid uterus.  Whatever that means.  I google.  It isn't uncommon and 99% of fibroid tumors remain benign.  Most likely I'll just be monitered; occasionally biopsies are done to rule out sarcoma and in rare cases people have their fibroids surgically removed - or even need a hysterectomy - but generally it's to deal with symptoms I don't have.

I await my doctor's final say on Monday - hopefully by then the biomarker results will be in - but for now I'm going with the nonsurgical wait and see version of my future.

And breakfast.  I've had a late, busy night and the tumors are hungry.