Tom didn’t understand why I was showering before my appointment.
“So I smell fresh!” I had explained. I was getting ready for my dreaded yearly womanly exam. Not that I stink but before I go to one of those appointments I like to make sure I’m as clean as I can be. Just like in the Army how they try to be all they can be. You know?
After my shower (and I realized in there that I needed to shave my legs—yikes, can’t show my gynecologist hairy legs!) I made sure to put on my nice underwear.
“Don’t you hide your underwear?” Tom asked, confused.
Well. Yes. When I undress I always bury my underwear in a ball under my pants and shirt. But still.
I left soon after that.
When I got the hospital I was called back a few minutes later. The nurse weighed me (“don’t tell me what it is!” I said, squishing my eyes shut) and then took my blood pressure. Then before she left she told me to undress and get into the paper gown that was resting on the exam table.
As soon as she was gone, I changed at lightening speed. It is a fear of mine to have the doctor walk in as I’m bending over. Then she’ll inevitably pass out from the shock of my pale bare ass. I stuck my arms though the papery gown and waited on the exam table. It was then when I realized there was a diagram of a vagina less than three feet from my head. It was shocking at first to turn and realize that AHHH I’m looking at a vagina.
Did you know there is something called a Crus down there? I frowned at all the terms and then for some reason, I thought back to an article I read in one of my girl magazines that talked about the things that gynecologists have found in a vagina. Grapes....chocolate....a stamp. I’m not kidding. The food I get because okay, maybe the girl and her mate got carried away. But a stamp? How in the world would a stamp get down there? And how awkward would that be for the gynecologist to pull it out. Would they joke and be like, “Found the stamp. I guess this means you have a first class crotch.”
I snorted at this and was giggling when the doctor walked in. She seemed a bit startled to see her patient with a wide grin on her face. She’s probably used to people shaking in their paper gowns.
She asked me some questions such as did I smoke (no), drink (only when the kids have been exceptionally bad), and was I sexually active.
I felt my face warm at that one.
“Yes,” I muttered. I felt like there was a neon sign that spelled out SLUT with an arrow pointed at me above my head.
“Do you want to be tested for any STDs?” the doctor continued.
Huh? Excuse me?
“Well, no, I’m married,” I said. “And my husband knows if he cheated on me that I’d rip off his balls so I won’t be needing a STD test.”
I meant it as a JOKE and expected the doctor to laugh. But she just stared at me with saucer eyes. “Okay,” she said slowly, glancing at my chart. “I guess we can begin.”
I tried to think of other things while the doctor did her thing. Like....how in the world can plaid be back in fashion? And how creepy it is when couples color coordinate. And how we could have something called a crus down there. What would I make for dinner? Chicken? Burgers? Would I ever find an agent to represent me? At this rate, no, as I keep getting those query form rejections. You just aren’t good enough blah blah blah…
“All done,” the doctor chirped.
I’m all healthy. And I have a new prescription for birth control since Tom refuses to get a vasectomy. I don’t think this is fair. I had the babies, now it is his turn to step up to the plate. But he’s all, “Do you know what they DO to me?” and I’m all, “Yes, thanks to the song they sang on Family Guy I do. But you need to take one for the team,” and he’s all, “No.”