When I was 9 years old, my parents decided while I was on summer vacation in a third world country, to have me circumcized.
We were staying in a rural area, so the roads were really rutted and we had to take a bouncy jeep ride to and from the hospital. The “doctor” used a local anesthetic administered with a needle the size of a caulk gun. I could still feel the pain and I was mad, but could do nothing about it.
When my poor battered dong was all stitched up and bandaged, I put on my fitted jeans. FITTED JEANS. My Grandma and I got back into the Jeep for the bumpy ride back to the village. I couldn’t walk from the corner to the house so she carried me back home, laughing and yelling at the on-looking neighbors – “He just got circumcized! Can’t walk in these jeans!” And everyone had a great old laugh.
It took about three weeks to recover, during which we went on several bus and jeep rides on various dirt roads. For the first week, I had to wear one of my grandma’s muumuus because all pants were painful, and all the bastard neighborhood kids would just peer into the windows of our house to watch the kid from America cruise around in a dress. Did wonders for my self-esteem.
I’m not even going to mention the difficulty of changing the bandages.
It was all physically painful, emotionally damaging, and a complete and total drag.