Who doesn't?

When I was young I had a little bit of a problem.

Well, I mean, it was a problem for some, mostly for my mother who often had to take me out in public. For me, it was an obsession.

I liked to grab my junk.

I am unaware how this obsession started or why, but from the time I started to walk I would be seen seldomly without my hand grabbing my prized possession. My parents tried to intervene to no avail. At one point my mother talked to the pediatrician about it. He was understanding of my mother's qualms, but reassured her that it was a natural phase that I would one day grow out of.

It was Christmas 1982 and I was 4-years-old. My uncle, who was in his early twenties, and his girlfriend were in town to visit.

One evening my parents and the two of them were sitting in the living room of our small ranch house sipping some beers when I walked in wearing my pajamas. Not surprisingly my hand was grabbing the goods.

Mom: "Scott, do you need to go to the bathroom?"
Me: "Nope."
Mom: "Then why are you holding yourself?"

I contemplated the question.

Me: "Well....sometimes it's up, and sometimes it's down. And I like it better when it's up."

My parents erupted with laughter. My uncle spit out his beer and started convulsing in hysterics on the floor. In between bouts of audible, rib straining laughs he managed to mutter out "Me.........hehehehe.....too......hehehehehe......Scott.....hehehehehe."

My mom still tells that story to all my girlfriends.

And I did grow out of the phase.

Kind of.