First, before I say anything else, let me say this. Praise God and all the saints, spring has officially arrived. That’s right, it’s the spring equinox. Today marks the point at which each day will become progressively sunnier, progressively warmer for the next three months. I can’t tell you how excited this makes me and how hopeful, especially considering what a serious bitch this last season has been. So hang a basket of flowers on your front door or put a bird on your shoulder–hell, buy some Claritin–but whatever you do, let’s mark this auspicious occasion. Winter is finally over.

The wicked witch is dead!

Okay, now let’s talk about something personal. As I’ve mentioned several times over the last week, I have this rash, a super-irritated and itchy section of my body that has been driving me crazy non-stop for a while now. I’ve been saying that it’s located “where no one wants a rash,” but I’m just going to go ahead and be more specific–the rash is on my junk, or as my mom (the nurse) taught me to say when I little–my scrotum. I’ve been hesitant to put this fact in writing, partly because it’s a little embarrassing and partly because (believe it or not) I do consider some things in my life private and sacred. Like, I don’t wake up on the regular and think, I know what I’m going to do today–I’m going to get on the internet and tell the entire digital world that my balls look like an angry apple.

(Call me old-fashioned, but I just don’t consider it classy.)

That being said, my standards have been rapidly declining recently. Hell, in the last week alone, in an effort to figure this problem out, I’ve called up two doctors and one nurse on the phone and essentially said, “I don’t make it a habit of saying this to everyone, but let’s talk about my dick.” Unfortunately, none of the conversations have led to a solution, but the good thing that came from all of them was this–not one of the people I spoke to was as embarrassed by my situation as I was. Rather, the feeling I got from them was, this is pretty routine for us. Like, come back when you grow a third testicle.

A few years ago I saw a urologist for what ended up being non-bacterial prostatitis. The doctor said he was 99% sure my prostate wasn’t infected, but that we should check anyway. Well (in plain English), that required him to stick his finger up my butt, and whereas I might have been down for that sort of thing on a Friday night, I wasn’t exactly prepared for it on a Tuesday morning, what with the harsh lighting in the exam room and all. (I would have preferred candles.) But still, beggars can’t be choosers. (As the exam was happening I was like, “This is seriously what you do for a living?” And he was like, “Yeah, it’s not the easiest thing to talk about at Thanksgiving.”) Anyway, my point is this–had their been a meal involved before my prostate exam, I would have been ready to introduce this guy to my family, but it was all in a day’s work for him.

He probably doesn’t even remember my name.

But back to my junk.

Part of the reason I’m talking about my junk is that after almost a solid year of writing this blog, I’m coming around to the idea that we all have it. (Junk in general, not my junk specifically.) What I mean is that, yes, we all have physical junk, private parts we often consider embarrassing. But we also have emotional junk we keep to ourselves because we somehow believe “I’m the only one” or “No one would understand.” But having spent the last year openly and honestly discussing my fears, insecurities, and challenges (as well as my dreams and desires), I no longer believe these beliefs are good excuses to keep everything inside. Since not once has someone responded to even one of my most intimate posts by saying, “You’re a complete freak–I’ve never felt that way,” I’m convinced we’re more similar than different.

One of the great things that’s come out of this blog project is that I’m much (much) less embarrassed or ashamed than I used to be. I’m honestly not worried about telling anyone–anyone–that I’m gay, that my nut sack feels like it’s sitting on a family of fire ants, or that there are still days when my sweat smells like Easter eggs–because all of these things are true. Along these lines, my therapist and I recently had a conversation about vulnerability, a hot topic in the self-help world lately, largely due to the work of Brene Brown. I said, “My experience lately is that I don’t feel vulnerable when I tell someone something ‘private’ about me because I’m no longer afraid of their reaction. I’m no longer worried about how they’ll respond.”

“Right,” my therapist said. “When I think of someone who is vulnerable, I think of someone who is weak or unable to help themselves, like a child or someone being held captive or abused. But people who know who they are and aren’t afraid to speak their truth don’t feel weak or vulnerable when they do so–they feel strong.”

But back to my junk.

After a solid week of my junk itching and burning and a few days of my inner thighs itching, I thought, Maybe this has something to do with my boxer-briefs. So last night when I got home from Houston I asked my parents, “By any chance, did you start using a new laundry detergent?” Well, as it turns out, they did–about a month ago. Convinced the new detergent was the culprit, I took a shower then went to bed without any clothes on. Y’all, this morning things looked and felt significantly better. Not like perfect, but also not like an angry apple.

A distinctly upset apple, perhaps.

This afternoon I taught dance, so that means I had to put clothes on. (I’m not a complete animal.) I found a pair of underwear I haven’t worn in a while (and therefore would have been washed with the old detergent) so I wore those. And whereas things “flared up” after a couple hours of sweating and moving around, they’re still not currently as bad as they were yesterday or the day before. I guess I’ll see what the dermatologist recommends tomorrow, but I for one think the solution to my problem is simple–join a nudist colony. I mean, it is spring now, and clearly Junior could use some fresh air.

If you want to know the truth, I’ve given Junior a lot of grief over the years, either for not being “the right size” or looking “the right way” or “not working right” (I have a small bladder). In other words, I’ve been critical of Junior. But to be clear, I’ve been critical about a lot of my body parts. Actually, there’s probably not a square inch of my body that I haven’t been critical of at some point in my life. Like, I think my nose is “too big,” my back is “too round,” and my nipples stick out “too much.” But after a week of my junk feeling absolutely miserable, I’ve realized two things. First, there isn’t a square inch of my body that can’t make me miserable or shut me down in an instant should it decide to stop working or flare up. Second, the moment any part of my body stops working or goes wrong, all my thoughts about physical appearance and “too much” or “not enough” cease to matter. If they don’t, I’m not in enough pain. Because when I’m really physically miserable, I don’t care what I look like–I just want things to function as they did before.

For these reasons, I’m determined to be kinder to myself, to stop criticizing all the parts of my body that, for the vast majority of my life, have done nothing for me but work. Better said, they’ve done nothing for me but serve. My legs and feet take me where I want to go, my arms and hands dance with and hold the people I love, my big nose helps me breath, and my junk provides me daily relief and–sometimes–a lot of fun. All this my body does for me while asking nothing in return, even when I’m embarrassed by it or think it should be different than it is in this moment (as if that’s even possible). Surely this is an innocent mistake on my part, looking at a perfectly beautiful body and somehow finding it shameful, wanting it to be more or less than it is, being anything but grateful for every square inch of myself.