In the Car After the Wedding Banquet, He Brought Up Levitra—We Didn't Fight, We Talked Until Midnight

It was almost eleven by the time the wedding banquet let out. The highway streetlights receded one by one behind us, and the only sound in the car was the late-night radio program murmuring softly. She took off her high heels and tucked her feet up on the passenger seat, then suddenly asked him, "You were distracted the whole time today—did someone ask you again when we're having kids?" He gripped the steering wheel and didn't answer right away. Only after we passed the toll booth did he say, no, it wasn't that. It was the senior classmate at the next table who clapped him on the shoulder and said, "A man has to start taking care of himself at a certain age," then added, "You've been looking pretty worn out lately." She laughed when she heard that, but it wasn't a mocking laugh—it was the kind of laugh that says, "So you care about it too." The car was quiet for a few minutes. Then, as if he'd finally found the right angle to bring it up, he said that for the past six months he'd been thinking about something. Not any specific pain, but a fatigue he couldn't quite put into words—it made him unmotivated about a lot of things, including her.

She didn't respond right away, because she knew that in moments like this, if she said "You're overthinking it" or "You just don't exercise," he'd shut down. She just turned the radio down and asked, "So what have you been reading lately?" He said it started with scrolling through his phone and seeing some discussions about men's health. Then it got more and more scattered—zinc, maca, clam extract—every article claiming to be the most effective. The more he read, the more confused he got. She nodded and said she understood that feeling. It was like when she'd wanted to buy sleep supplements—every bottle said "natural" and "no burden," and she stood in front of the shelf for ten minutes and ended up buying nothing. He laughed and said, yeah, exactly—that state of "the more you search, the less you know what you're searching for."

Later he mentioned that a few days ago he'd seen someone on a forum asking about Levitra. He said he wasn't actually thinking about buying it—he just wanted to know what kind of thing it was and why people discussed it alongside regular supplements. She didn't change expression when she heard this. She just asked, "Do you want to know for yourself, or did someone make you feel like you need it?" He thought about it and said, half and half. She said, then let's separate "need" from "curiosity" first. Need means your body is actually uncomfortable—that requires seeing a doctor. Curiosity means the information isn't clear—that you can look into, but you need to know what you're looking at. He nodded and said what he feared most was that if he actually went to ask, he'd be seen as "not man enough." She said she'd felt that fear too—she once went to the gynecologist about a tiny issue and circled the clinic door twice before going in.

She rolled the window down a little to let the night air in and said, "Then let's divide the work. You list out everything you've seen, and I'll help you figure out what those words actually mean." He asked how to look it up. She said, first step: check whether it's a prescription drug. If it is, you can't buy it online yourself, and you can't just take it because a friend said "it worked great for me." Second step: check whether the label says it's a food or a drug—these two have different labeling regulations in Taiwan. Third step: no matter what you find, you take it to a pharmacist or doctor in the end, and you bring everything you normally take with you—including the things you think are "just supplements." He was quiet for a moment and said he'd never thought about bringing a list. She said, because everyone thinks supplements aren't medicine—but that's exactly the problem.

The next day, he actually took photos of all the bottles and jars he'd bought, taken, or been given over the past six months and put them in a notes app. She saw one bottle that a friend had brought back from abroad—the label was entirely in a foreign language, and he couldn't even read the ingredients. She said, don't take this one for now—wait until you've asked a professional. He was a little defensive and said his friend took it and said it was good. She replied, "Your friend feeling good doesn't mean you'll feel the same, and it doesn't mean it won't interact with what you're already taking." He didn't argue, because he knew she was right. That night they opened the notes app and went through everything one by one, marking the things they didn't understand so they could ask about them together on their next trip to the pharmacy.

At the pharmacy, after hearing their questions, the pharmacist first asked him, "Do you normally take any medication?" He shook his head. The pharmacist asked again, "And this foreign bottle—do you know what's in it?" He said he didn't. The pharmacist said, then don't take it for now, because if you don't know the ingredients, you don't know whether they'll interact. The pharmacist also reminded them that if it's a prescription drug, it must go through a doctor's evaluation—you can't just buy it and take it, and you can't assume it's fine for you just because someone else said it worked. She wrote down the key points on the side. On the way back to the car, she told him, "See? We didn't buy anything today, but at least we know what the next step is." He laughed and said that felt more solid than actually buying something.

On the way home, he suddenly said that what he really wanted to ask today wasn't whether that thing works, but "if I actually go ask a doctor, will I be laughed at?" She said, doctors see so many people every day—they won't remember what you asked, but they'll remember whether you explained things clearly. She added that what really matters isn't how others see you, but whether you can fully explain your physical condition, what you're taking, and the worries in your heart. He nodded and said he'd go ask by himself next time—she didn't need to come. She said okay, but reminded him that after he asks, he has to come back and report—not the results, but what he asked, what the doctor said, and whether he understood it.

That night, before she closed the notes app, she wrote one line on the last page: "First figure out what you're actually asking, then decide whether to buy." She didn't send it to him, because she knew he'd see it himself. This conversation that started after the wedding banquet had no conclusion, and no one was convinced of anything—but they both agreed on one thing: when it comes to your body, it's okay to go slow. It's only a problem when you rush into it blindly.