The Heaviest 35 Pounds in the World

In my early 20s, I worked in a mailroom. My sense of touch was so refined, I could hold an envelope and tell you whether mailing the contents would require one, two or three stamps. I had a scale to confirm my suspicions, but I was correct more often than not.

My parents have a brick painted gold in their house. It’s a small, solid cinder block with a side dug out for a metal handle. On the side is painted the weight: 50 pounds. It was fun watching new visitors check to see if the weight was correct, often grunting as their shoulders stretched with the tug of trying to lift it.

I carry 230 pounds on a daily basis, though I’d win most carnival “Guess Your Weight” booths because my proportions don’t appear that heavy. It’s kind of people to guess I’m under two bills, but I could easily pass for 210. 205 if I suck in my gut.

I mention these weights because Sunday night, my three year old jumped on my balls. We were playing on the floor, and I warned him about how roughhousing would end up with someone hurt and crying. He charged me, unprepared, and flew like a wrestler off the top rope, stomping down with all of his might onto the mat. With my testicles under his feet.

I did what any man would do in that situation – I wept and stagger-crawled to the bathroom to vacate any food from my stomach. I didn’t feel any blood, so nothing ripped. I cupped myself and counted to two, so that was good. But the pain! Easily top three in my lifetime.

After some of the pain subsided (but not all; it’s now Thursday and I’m still sore), I debated posting something about the incident as my Facebook status. It’d certainly be unique. But, while I’m curious what responses it would evoke, I don’t think posting about genitals is appropriate. It’s a personal thing.

Y’know, like for a blog.