When I was a freshman in college, I self-diagnosed some uncomfortable itching in my nether region as a yeast infection, and marched myself to the nearest pharmacy to fix my ailing va-jay-jay.
Looking at the over-the-counter yeast infection remedies, I found several brands claiming to cure that not so comfy feeling "down there," but it was the number on each box that caught my eye. One particular brand had a seven-day treatment, a five-day treatment, or a one-day treatment. Clearly, the one-day treatment was the way to go! Who would suffer with this crap for five days or worse seven? Fools, that's who!
About an hour after the application, things started to happen and not in a good way.
I began sweating--things were getting HOT in the lady garden . . . and not in the biblical "burning bush" kind of way.
Dropping trou, I got shock of my life. My hoo-ha had transformed into balls!
Yes, friends, balls.
The swelling was so bad my girly bits were barely recognizable! Horrified by my new appendage, I let out a scream and my roommate came rushing in
"Something isn't right, but I don't want to show you," I stammered, attempting to close my legs.
"Let me see," she said. Taking a deep breath, I pushed myself up and braced for her reaction.
When she saw my new accessory, she cried, "What did you do to her?"
Clearly I needed medical attention, but didn't have a car and could barely walk. Seriously, how do guys walk with these things? My new appreciation for the male species was cut short when I realized I would have to call my emergency contact: my older brother.
Here's the gist of my call to him:
So you know how you've always wanted a brother but you were stuck with me? Good news! I have balls now! I may be morphing into a dude and need to run by the ER just to make sure everything is cool down there. Can you come pick me up?
After 15 minutes of my brother laughing his ass off, he drove me to the ER for a ball-check. As if the humiliation could get any worse, I was seen by the hottest intern I've ever laid eyes on. Really? A hot doctor? You're just messing with me now, Universe, right?
Dr. McHotty: What seems to be the problem?
Me: Well Doc, it would seem that I have balls.
Dr. McHotty: Balls?
Me: Yes. Balls. I grew them today and would like to get rid of them ASAP.
Dr. McHotty: Well let's check out your balls.
Me: Only if you buy me dinner first (smile--wink--distract from the horror movie that is your vagina).
The good doctor prescribed lots of Benadryl and told me to not have sex for a few days. He totally added the no sex part because I tried to slip him my number . . . multiple times. The man was adorable and had already seen me partially naked. Why not?
I'm sure my balls made for an awesome convo at the nurse's station.
My balls disappeared, my lady bits returned to their normal size, and I've sworn off all self-diagnosing; however, I've sort of become an urban legend in the yeast infection world. My advice? Go for the seven-day treatment--better yet--go to a doctor. Because growing a pair feels surprisingly like fire in the hole.
*This post originally appeared in In The Powder Room*