Dear Frozen Peas,

Thank you. Thank you for giving me a haven in which to nestle my traumatized scrotum. Your soothing, pain-relieving, inflammation-reducing frigidity is a gift indeed.

Even as I write this, you are bravely toughing it out in the pouch of my jock strap, which is holding you firmly against my aforementioned traumatized scrotum. To find yourself in such a dark and alien environment must come as quite a surprise, as you no doubt had assumed since the moment the farmer plucked your pod from the vine that you would ultimately be served up hot and steaming—perhaps with a pat of butter, even.

But, no, yours turned out to be a higher calling.

It was the promise of your frozen goodness, in part, that helped me endure yesterday’s puncturing of the scrotum, and subsequent snipping, suturing and cauterizing of both the left and right vas deferens, through which no sperm shall ever again pass.

Yes, the Novocain played a more immediate role in those moments during which I lay prone on the table beneath the harsh fluorescent lighting while the doctor handled my goods in a most invasive and unwelcome fashion—but Novocain wears off in short order, while you, my frozen friends, you never falter. Though the warmth of my genitals may sap you of your power, a short stay in the freezer restores you to your original glory, and a bag of your frozen brethren is always at the ready when you need to tag out for a break.

I suppose you are owed an explanation for the circumstance in which you now find yourselves.

The explanation is twofold, with the first reason—the most important and significant reason—being that it would be good neither for myself, nor my family, nor the world in general for me to father another child. I have been graced with two extraordinary children—one son and one daughter, no less—who I love and cherish more than I ever thought it possible to love and cherish something. The loving and the cherishing is the easy part, however; it is the caring for that is the real kicker, and I am quite certain that my ability to care for a third child is, well, nonexistent. I’m tapped out.

Occasionally, during those (frequent) moments when my son and daughter have my wife and I stretched to the breaking point, I envision an additional child thrown into the mix, and that vision is one that can best be described as “horrifically untenable.” Against the backdrop of raising a third child for the next couple of decades, the alternative of subjecting myself to a 30-minute session of testicular mutilation actually seemed quite desirable.

Of course, a by-product of this precautionary sterilization logically leads to the second reason—or, incentive, if you will—for getting a vasectomy: unprotected sex.

I believe in condoms, strongly support their use, think that they should be distributed far and wide, and know that they are critical in helping to curb the spread of sexually transmitted diseases. (Thanks to my late grandfather, I am also aware that they can serve many other useful purposes, to include keeping rain out of the barrel of one’s semi-automatic machine gun when one finds oneself fighting on the South Pacific island of Iwo Jima during World War II, and for keeping one’s wallet dry when, while on shore leave, one thinks that it would be best to hide one’s wallet in the tank of the commode in one’s hotel room for safekeeping.)

Having said all of that, I will share a secret with you, frozen peas: I hate rubbers.

This is not to say that, were I single, I would have unprotected sex; I wouldn’t (though, if my previous years of single-dom are any indication, that would have more to do with not having a partner than with choosing to use a condom). It is to say, however, that I think that one benefit of being in a monogamous relationship that I fully expect will endure from now until the end of my life is the luxury of having fearlessly unprotected sex. The only thing stopping me to date has been reason No. 1 described above.

With reason No. 1 now surgically removed from the equation, well, if and when my wife and I ever find the time and energy to have a romantic interlude, it will be latex-free.

And it is you, frozen peas, that have been significant contributors to this cause. Without you, my scrotum would be swollen and sore. Without you, the razor burn created on my scrotum when the doctor shaved it would be far more uncomfortable than it already is. Without you … well, I don’t even want to think what my world would be like right now without you.

Thank you, frozen peas.

Love,
Jon

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