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Digital Slob Curt Brandao |
Going under, and
losing his underwearIt's almost impossible to make a Digital Slob blush, for the same reason it's impossible to burn something more than once. For us, disgrace is like the measles: We got a near-fatal dose years ago, but now we're immune for life -- no more excess red pigment rushing to our face, no more ego-allergic reactions whatsoever. It's nature's way -- we're happier this way.
While some prideful Respectable People still call in sick on bad-hair days, pull a Digital Slob's pants down in public and he'll probably just thank you for the fresh air as his boxers (please, God, let there be boxers) gently flap in the breeze.
My shame to end all shame came, typically, like a shiv to the abdomen. But it was mercifully quick, and every indignity since has been a tickle with a feather boa by comparison.
At 17, my wisdom teeth began a tectonic shift, threatening all the symmetry gained from my Orthodontic Redevelopment Project completed in junior high, bankrolled by my mom, and mandated by the homeowners association to which we belonged.
But Mom had a cut-rate "no gurney, no coverage" family health plan, so prying my enameled weeds from their roots within budget would mean general anesthetic -- a first for me.
I arrived at the clinic for an 8:30 a.m. surgery, foregoing all food and drink (even my routine late-night canned ham) the night before. I stripped to my skivvies and put on the gown. The nurse found a vein and started a saline drip (where the nighty-nite juice was to go) at 7:45 a.m.
8:30 a.m. came and went. So did 9:30, 10:30 and 11:30 a.m. The doctor was definitely not in. But suddenly, as I was tapping out my fourth bag of saline, the ground crew (now clearly worried about their lunch plans) whisked me into the operating room as if I had a collapsed lung from a passenger-train derailment and needed defib STAT.
With the peace of mind you can only get from a corpse-eye-view of Dr. Masked Man, I counted backward from 100, blacking out at 97.
I awoke with what seemed like five peanut butter sandwiches stuffed in my mouth. "Get up and put on your clothes," the nurse barked with a tone that said she knew a tip was not in the offing.
I sat up. I wasn't wearing underwear. I went in with underwear. Under the gurney were my jeans, shoes, shirt ... no underwear. Ninguna ropa interior, in Spanish. My inner voice began testing its sordid depths. "But wait, what could they do to me? There were definite limits. I mean, I was under GENERAL ANESTHETIC. Head-to-toe, closed for repairs. Come back tomorrow."
With my head in a fog, my tongue found daylight and asked, "Where's my underwear?" Then out came the shiv of humiliation.
"Well, you had a little accident once you went under the anesthesia," the nurse said.
"Oh," I said. My mouth was numb and would recover, but my pride was now seething and in its death throes. Apparently, whether you intake four extra hours of pre-op fluid through your mouth or your wrist, it will find its usual outtake valve once you are completely under.
But only seconds later, my emotional state swung from, "How can I possibly go on?" to, "It serves them right." It was hardly my fault, right? I wasn't even there, really. I guess the ground crew missed lunch, after all, to swab the deck.
So, the lesson is clear: Before you make a futile attempt to embarrass a Digital Slob by pulling his pants down, for your own good, and the good of society, do the decent thing and ask him if he's been to the dentist today.
See the Columnists section for some past articles.
Curt Brandao is the Star-Bulletin's
production editor. Reach him at
at: cbrandao@starbulletin.com
