Exciting news via email; a man I don’t know died and named me sole recipient of his will and estate. He was a Prince. Unfortunately Not THE Prince. I do not get a piece of Purple Rain. I only wish.

Then there was this other interesting email from my editor at Ask Men. They are rolling out a new website design and want to shine a spotlight on their writers. Give a face to each article. Along with staff writers, they decided to showcase some of their favorite freelance contributors. I was asked to submit a professional photograph and a hundred word biography.

Not since senior year of high school has this mug sat down in a studio for a professional photograph.

Glamor Shots in the mall, here I come! I think the purple feather boa conveys just the right message to Ask Men readers. It says “this man should be trusted for sound advice” and wearing it will soften the blow of losing out on a chunk of the Prince estate.

After some convincing, the wife suggested taking the shot at Picture People.

“Do they have boas?” I asked.

“No,” she groaned “but they do have little cars and library backgrounds.”

I suppose that will suffice.

The walls were jammed with photos, mostly babies and toddlers but some adults. Every subject smiled like taking a picture was the greatest experience of their life.

“Are these actual clients?” I asked the store associate while waiting for my final shots to upload.

“Most are people we’ve shot in the store. Corporate sends pics but we like these much better. It’s more personal to come in and possibly see people you know on the wall.”

“Wouldn’t it be funny,” the wife commented while admiring the photo later in the afternoon “if they framed your picture and hung it on the wall.”

No. I was going to go back to forbid them from doing such a thing but in the excitement of dress shopping with the wife I plum forgot. EXCITING!

A few days later and I was waiting for a much different type of picture.

“Have a seat,” the nurse said pointing to the waiting area “and we should have the picture results of your cat scan in about fifteen minutes.”

I finally decided to consult with a doctor about a recurring stomach injury.  Some time after Christmas I woke up with a gassy, bloating feeling that evolved into an incredibly sharp muscle pain. It subsided after a few days of Advil and a heating pad. It popped up again after a decent ab workout in the early spring. This final time was more painful than the others. The wife pushed me until I agreed to see the doctor.  He sent me for a cat scan as a precautionary measure.

“Mr. Illuminati,” the nurse called, “your doctor’s office is on the phone. They would like to speak with you.”

Acute and chronic appendicitis. Not good.

The next thing I knew I was in the ER in a nightgown that showed anyone who was interested just what a cute little ass I hid in my jeans.  Besides the gown, my other concern of the moment was the anesthesia. I kept thinking I would never wake up. I didn’t care about needles, knives, breathing tubes, catheters, or the fact that several people had seen my penis over the last hour. I was nervous as hell about getting put under.

The thoughts and images that ran through my mind as the nurses wheeled my bed to the operating room were random and absurd.

This feels like it’s going to take forever.

What’s in that room?

I hope everyone knows how much I care about them.

Are these people also gonna see my penis?

I am starving.

This doesn’t look like operating rooms  in the movies.

I need one of these wheeling beds for home.

They lifted me from the gurney to operating table. My mind scrambled.  The lights were blinding. The conversation between the operating team was casual and reminiscent of any office I’ve ever worked, all ignoring the half naked man in a shower cap about to get sliced open through the belly button.

“We are just going to start the anesthesia and you…..”

“Chris? Chris Illuminati?” a recognizable voice asked as I blinked for focus. “I thought that was you. You are in the recovery room. How are you feeling?”

There is a running joke with the wife about how I can’t go anywhere in public without running into someone from my past. I tell her she is exaggerating. Going to school with the recovery nurse would only cement her claim.  We talked for a few minutes as I drifted in and out of sleep. The drugs had me loopy. I asked how she was doing, if she was married, if she had any kids and if she ever talked to anyone from school. I think she asked me all the same questions. I can’t remember my answers.

As she started to wheel me out to meet my family, I am almost positive I asked her not to put my picture on the wall.