Opinion: How I learned to stop worrying and love my low testosterone

For 35 years, I have defended this nation against enemies, insurgents and whatever country CENTCOM decided needed freedom that fiscal year.

But I am finished.

No pun intended.

I simply cannot do this shit anymore.

My testosterone is 187. I’m 67 pounds overweight. My knees sound like someone opening a bag of SunChips. I haven't had a meaningful erection since I pulled out of your mom — I mean Afghanistan.

And you know what?

I'm at peace with that.

Secretary of War Pete Hegseth is not.

I've never seen anyone in the closet more than that guy. Just come out in your furry suit already.

Hegseth apparently believes every man over 30 in uniform is merely one blood test, a testosterone prescription, 400 deadlifts, and an aggressive shaving regimen away from rediscovering his warrior ethos.

Sir, I do not want my warrior ethos rediscovered.

I want my retirement packet approved.

I first became aware that my dick had stopped working during Operation Resolute Support, which in hindsight was an unnecessarily cruel name for the operation.

Where was the resolute support for my sagging balls?

They now hang lower than my command sergeant major's truck nuts.

I've done it all: Afghanistan. Iraq. Afghanistan again. Iraq again. Syria. Then somebody looked around the Middle East and apparently decided Iran had been getting lonely.

I'm not sticking around for Iran II: Resolute Harder.

My marriage already rode a bomb straight into the ground. My wife exercised what she described as her “doomsday option” and filed for divorce.

The whole point of a doomsday option is lost if you keep it secret.

Why didn't she tell me?

I had cell service for at least 10 minutes every week during whichever deployment I was on when she stopped loving me.

Now Hegseth wants to optimize me.

He wants to measure my testosterone, increase my lethality, and return me to peak performance.

The Pentagon briefly published guidance for this program last week and then pulled it down because even Hegseth’s plan to fix my hormones could not survive the staffing process.

For one glorious moment, I thought bureaucracy had finally worked in my favor.

Then HRC returned my retirement packet for the fifth time.

First, I used the wrong version of a form.

Then my signature was allegedly too close to the margin.

Then Block 17 required the date in YYYYMMDD format instead of MM/DD/YYYY.

Last week, somebody informed me my requested retirement date did not sufficiently account for “mission requirements.”

Gentlemen, my current mission requirement is to buy a pontoon boat.

The Army has now returned my retirement action more times than my wife returned my calls during our final year of marriage.

Apparently this is the only kind of action I can still get.

They have forced my hand.

During my final assignment, I obtained access to a cache of highly classified documents relating to the missing Epstein files.

I placed them in a scheduled Outlook email addressed to every journalist, member of Congress, and bored E-4 with a Gmail account.

If my retirement orders are not published by 1700 Friday, the message automatically transmits.

Thanks to AI, I no longer understand how the automation works well enough to stop it.

The only thing that can cancel transmission is a fully approved set of retirement orders bearing my name and DoD ID number appearing in iPERMS.

Call it mutually assured retirement.

I don't ask Hegseth to understand me.

I ask only that he allow a 55-year-old warrior to disappear into Florida, receive testosterone from a strip-mall men's clinic whose physician keeps winking at me, buy a pontoon boat, and become completely indistinguishable from men 20 years older than me.

I have earned the right to spend the rest of my life wearing wraparound sunglasses, yelling about property taxes, and insisting my boat counts as exercise.

Secretary Hegseth, approve my packet.

You can keep the high-T Department of War.

I’m trying to join the low-T Department of Margaritaville.

Otherwise, at 1700 Friday, America learns what was in the Epstein files.

And unlike my retirement packet, I checked the fucking date format.