I went up to New York City this weekend, and stopped over at my parent’s house in D.C. Thursday night, and because my mother was out of town on business, my father and I decided to go get dinner at this cute, happening pizza place in Georgetown.

We were standing at the very crowded bar, drinking a glass of red wine together and started talking about how we both tend to be a little neurotic when it comes to our health, you know, thinking we’re dying, when in reality, we’ve got a muscle ache or something.

My dad decided to tell me a story about this one time he’d gone to have his yearly physical, and the doctor had detected a tiny bit of blood in his urine, but opting to be “delicate” in his recounting, he leaned in and told me, “there was blood, you know, in my wee-wee?” the only problem regarding this delicate recounting being that we’d gotten really into the conversation, into laughing at ourselves and he told me about his “wee-wee” in a sort of gruff, fake-whispered-but-actually-incredibly-loud voice, which, needless to say, attracted the attention of some of the bar customers, many of whom looked like they might be out on a first date. But what really reeled them in, stopped all their conversations was when my father told me, naturally, he’d assumed be was dying of some rare disease, and I asked him what had actually been wrong, and he, having lost all sense of decorum and realization of the fact that we were in a public - a really public - place, told me that, of course, it turned out he was fine, that the doctor - and this he shouted - leaning back, making fun of himself, glass of wine in one hand and a piece of bruschetta in the other, “It was MY PROSTATE. JUST A LITTLE ENLARGED! ‘NO BIG DEAL’ THE DOCTOR SAID. MY PROSTATE!”