Last weekend I found myself celebrating my 42nd birthday at a Latin American restaurant with a few friends that had never met in person. With our wives huddled together at the end of the table most likely talking smack about us in hushed tones, the men were breaking the ice the best way we know how. 

We conducted exploratory conversations in the same fashion that someone would perform a job interview – tossing lines from the boat with bait like ‘how many kids do you have?’ or ‘what do you do for a living?’ or ‘where’d you go to school?’

We were anxiously searching for something to bite on or connect with.

In this age of visual stimulation, I was amazed that this establishment was absent of a television. People were sitting at the bar and individual tables ACTUALLY conversing – something we don’t see too often anymore.

I did, however, notice a few patrons with their phones propped up against their volcanic rock pestles of guacamole, streaming hoop games including any one of the last 8 teams vying for a shot at making the Final Four.

As I made my way back to the table, we got into talking about our kids again. I subtly mentioned that after our 4th child arrived in early May, that I was going balls out (literally) in scheduling a vasectomy consult.

It was then and there that my friends pointed out that I should consider waiting until the following year and get ahead of March Madness. The idea being that if you go in for your procedure on a Thursday morning, you could potentially lay yourself up on the sofa for a string of days encompassing Sweet Sixteen weekend.  

Evidently, I was wholly unaware that over the last few years there’s been a building testicular trend… 

The Brosectomy.

My buddies were merely sharing their knowledge of the space, letting me know that local surgeons were hip to the hoopla surrounding our precious acorns and were going out of their way to offer discounted rates. I quickly pointed out that I was potentially uncomfortable with the idea of turning in a coupon from the Pennysaver to have someone work on my balls, but that’s neither here nor there.

The bigger story that emerged from this conversation and subsequent research, was that guys are consciously booking brosectomies together. They’re getting picked up at home in limos and getting liquored up on the way, as if this were some sort of ‘Mom Prom’ event.

Perhaps it’s just me, but I feel like there’s a shade of difference between sliding into a dress from Nordstrom Rack and sipping on a few mojitos at the Sheraton and dropping my drawers to have someone spar with my vas deferens using a soldering iron.

Making the Cut.

This weekend, many of my brethren will be tuning in to see whether or not Loyola (Chicago) can upset Michigan to move on to play either Nova or Kansas – but the question remains – will you be doing it at home on the sofa with a bag of frozen peas over your yam bag or donning a robe and dribbling yourself around the hotel suite with your ball buddies?

I, for one, will be keeping my brackets to myself.