Apparently the test takes place some three months before you plan to head to India to leave your genetic material in the hands of the medical team there (uh... not literally... I don't mean literally). We haven't yet surrendered ourselves 100 percent to the process, so the bag and its contents ride along with me wherever I go, mocking me, impugning my manhood.
No backseat passengers have seemed to notice it yet, so I haven't had to answer any questions I'd prefer not to. Truth is, I don't really mind talking about it, unless the person doing the asking is my mother. I'm afraid the mere thought of discussing the mechanics of providing a sample with my mother would make the eventual act impossible for me:
Internal dialogue: "She knows."
"No she doesn't. You can do this. She's on the other side of the city."
"She's on the other side of the city... but SHE KNOWS!"
Lucky for me my mother is unaware of this blog's existence and the lab I need to go to is in the distant suburb of Arcadia -- I barely know where that is, but it's a full valley and area code away from anywhere haunted by maternal relatives.