This morning I had a checkup with my doctor. “I’ve been feeling pretty good, but my energy levels are still up-and-down,” I said. “We should check your thyroid and your testosterone,” she said. (I distinctly remember asking about my thyroid and her saying it was fine a couple months ago, but whatever.) So that’s the next step–those two tests, which I have to go back for because one of them (I don’t remember which) is most accurate at the butt-crack of dawn. (These are my words, not my doctor’s.) Also, she also said it’s time to re-test my cholesterol and B12 levels to see if the supplements I’m taking are working. More accurately, in the case of the B12, to see if my body is absorbing the supplement.

You know, some things don’t sink in with certain people.

Let’s talk about my nipples. I never used to think about them before puberty. But then “the change” happened (as it does to us all), and–uh–I don’t know–they kind of grew. Ever since then, they don’t stick flat against my chest. They “pop out” a little, the right one more than the left. There, I said it. My tits are asymmetrical. I’m telling you this because for twenty years now, my boobs have been a source of personal concern and worry. You know, I use them to compare myself to others. Not constantly, mind you, not every minute of every damn day. I do have other things to fret about. My hairline, for example, or my fallen arches.

I’m glad we can talk about these things.

As a teenager, I HATED taking my shirt off. I remember swimming practically fully clothed at junior-high pool parties; I was so anxious about my chest. Not that anyone ever cared or said anything. In high school I worked at a summer camp–I was a lifeguard for crying out loud–and I bore my torso constantly. Not once–not one single time–did someone say, “Good Lord, Marcus, you’d better start wearing a training bra or you’re gonna put someone’s eye out with those things.” But you know how shit becomes a bigger deal in your head than it is in actual reality. I just knew I was different because I didn’t look like him.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve mostly made peace with my nipples. But every now and then my old worries creep up like a pair of cheap underwear. Sometimes my right breast will–um–itch or something, and I’ll think, It’s growing! (or) I’m going to get man boobs! (or) I probably have too much estrogen because I’m gay and eat soy sauce!

Like you don’t think a lot of crazy things.

Anyway, this morning while I was preparing to see my doctor and making note of things I wanted to talk about, I added my nipples to the list. (Number 6: My Tits.) Last year while watching Embarrassing Bodies on Netflix, I learned that it’s normal for teenage boys to have “growing nipples” and that many men who have MOOBS (that’s “man boobs,” Mom) opt to have surgery to have them reduced, and since I’ve been wondering whether or not they’d have to cut my nipples OFF and SEW THEM BACK ON as part of the procedure, I thought, Marcus, This is neurotic. You trust your doctor. She’s a professional. Just ask her about your pop-up nipples!

And no, they are not also scratch-and-sniff.

So there I was in the exam room, waiting, determined to do this, hoping I wouldn’t get nervous, yank my shirt up, and blurt out, “DO MY TA-TAS LOOK NORMAL TO YOU, DOCTOR?!” Well, get this shit. Today–for the first time ever–my doctor brought a medical student into the room with her. Jesus Christ, I thought, I wanna talk about my hooters, and there’s a frickin’ job shadow standing in the corner! I almost backed out. But then my doctor started talking about women’s nipples during another conversation about sensitive skin, stating that they can change colors after childbirth. (Like, from pink to brown, not from pink to chartreuse or anything cool like that.) So she was the one who technically broke the nipple-conversation ice.

All this to say that I asked. “You Googled gynecomastia, didn’t you?” she said.

“Twenty years ago,” I replied. (And maybe once every three years since.)

Then she looked. (When she lifted my shirt and read the text across the front, she said, “What does LUCKY U mean?” I said, “Lucky is a brand. Their thing is that when you unzip the zipper on their jeans, it says, ‘LUCKY U.” She said, “That’s cute.” I said, “I wish it were true.”) Anyway, get this shit. She said I was normal. (Me! Normal.) Her exact words were, “I don’t see ONE THING that would make me think you have high estrogen levels. If anything, some people are genetically predisposed to deposit fat in certain places.”

“So maybe a little fat there, but not breast tissue?” I said.

She laughed.

“No, not breast tissue. But don’t start smoking pot or go crazy–since both marijuana and certain anti-psychotic drugs can make you GROW breast tissue.”

So that’s a serious relief. I mean, honestly. How else are you supposed to feel when you’ve been off-and-on worried and concerned about something for twenty years and then an authority (like, a doctor with an actual medical degree and NOT some stranger from Fargo, Minnesota, with internet access and a keyboard) tells you that you’re okay? Personally, I feel a little confused, a little disoriented. I’m so used to believing that something ain’t right. Now part of me thinks, Maybe she’s wrong. It’s not like she SQUEEZED my nipples. (It’s not like anyone has lately.) Maybe she’d change her diagnosis if she SQUEEZED THEM. But most of me thinks, This is really good news, Marcus. One less thing to worry about.

Personally, I think it’s important to talk about your nipples. I mean euphemistically. This afternoon I saw my therapist, and we discussed my experiences last weekend with the dancing homosexual cowboys and the fact that several of them “rejected” me. I said, “Is it normal for me to feel icky after being turned down on the dance floor over and over?” She said, “Yes, it is. And people can argue with me until Christ returns, but gay bars are places of judgment and oppression. When minorities feel excluded by society, they unfortunately pass it on to others. It’s a cycle.” My point is this–I can’t count the number of times I’ve discussed my fears, worries, and embarrassments with my therapist and how many times she’s gently offered ANOTHER PERSPECTIVE. Because mine obviously isn’t the only one. So often my perspective is–in fact–a leftover viewpoint from childhood, a small fear that grew into a big, cumbersome fear because I either didn’t know better or didn’t know whom to discuss it with. This is why I’m all in favor of asking the difficult questions, of having the hard conversations, of being–well, honest–because I’m fully convinced freedom lies on the other side of everything I’m afraid of.