Sperm in a cup

Semen analysis...what a traumatic experience. I won't go into all the gory details, but let's just say it was quite an ordeal trying to get a semen sample out of B. There was absolutely nothing romantic or loving about it. I was being anal about the rules ("but it says right here in the instructions!") and B just wanted it to be over already. He finally managed to put about a teaspoon of semen in the damn cup, we screwed on the lid, wrapped it in a towel, put it in the oh-s0-discreet brown paper bag, and raced out the door.

We had to drive separately, since I was headed to work and B was going up the mountain to ski. Somehow, I ended up with the paper bag, and I nervously clutched it between my thighs while attempting to drive. I was hoping the warmth of my inner thigh region would suffice to keep the sample at an "ideal temperature of 94.5 degrees." Heaven forbid I should "expose the sample to extreme temperatures" and kill all the sperm we worked so hard to get. Never mind that it's 21 degrees outside!

We pulled up to the lab and hurried in. The receptionist ignored our presence at her desk for what felt like an eternity. She finally looked up at us as if we were an inconvenient interruption to her internet surfing. Her dagger eyes actually pushed B back against the wall, and I was left standing up there alone, clutching the paper sack to my chest, spokesperson for our family (as always). I was suddenly very aware of all the other patients in the waiting room (what is that pregnant lady doing here? get out!). I quietly explained that we had an appointment, and we have the sample already because we collected it at home. She did not acknowledge the urgency of our situation at all and, with a roll of her eyes, just told me to "sign the clipboard and have a seat." Really!? I just spent an hour torturing my husband to get a teaspoon of semen and now you people are going to let all the swimmers die here in this waiting room??? But we followed her orders and sat down. I tried handing the bag off to B at one point (why should I have to hold it? it's his bodily fluids, after all), but he nonchalantly tossed it onto the seat next to him, so I had to grab it back and continue pressing it against my body for the sake of warmth. Clearly, I will have to be in charge of these things.

Thankfully, the wait was not long, and we were called back to a weird tiny office to answer a few questions, sign a few forms, and pay our exorbitant fee. The perky lab tech gave us a label with B's demographic info and instructed us to stick the label on the outside of the cup, then leave the cup on the desk and show ourselves out. As we walked back down the hall, I couldn't stop wondering if any little spermies had survived in that plastic cup. B interrupted my thoughts by saying "that was dumb." I have no idea what he meant by that comment, so I chose to ignore it, but in my mind I was thinking "I couldn't agree more."

As I drove to work, I had the unsettling realization that I have already become the neurotic-infertile-wife-with-a-passive-husband. This is not good.