Oh goodness.
Tomorrow is the most dreaded of days.
My yearly physical exam.
I have actually pushed it back and back and back. I realized that I needed to schedule one in February, but because my perky lovable doctor is so very popular, I couldn’t get in until May, specifically the day before Memorial Day weekend. And then I conveniently forgot all about it.
Oops.
So I called last Friday and said “Um, oopsie, I think I forgot about my appointment… so, um… are we talking about September for the next one or what?” Because I am sly. Sly like a fox.
“Actually, Dr. Perky has an opening for Tuesday afternoon.”
Sly like a fox wearing combat boots, jumping on a pogo stick.
(insert look of anticipated pelvic discomfort here)
I’m just warning you right now, particularly those readers without a matched set of chromosomes (read: you male type things), that this is going to get a little ugly. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Honestly, I don’t know how pregnant women do it, jumping into those stirrups like they were about to run the Kentucky Derby or some such. I mean, KY Jelly gives me hives. Literal hives. The smell of latex makes me hyperventilate.
You guys don’t realize how much you miss out. Seriously. That “turn your head and cough while I fondle your genitals and stick a digit up your bum” thing is NOTHING! NOTHING I TELL YOU!
What is more, I have the David Copperfield of cervixes. It’s always disappearing. And my doctor is doing there, doing freaking play by play as I sit there, mentally shopping in elite little boutiques in Northern Wisconsin, which is my happy place I go to when I’m about to pass out from speculum-induced anxiety. Then she’ll suggest all of these breathing exercises to make my evasive little guy come out of hiding, so there I am, wishing that the Lord God above would strike me dead rather than leave this very lovely woman down there looking at my tuvalee, trying to will this part of my body that I NEVER EVEN THINK ABOUT to stand up and get swabbed within an inch of its life.
My doctor breeds champion black terrier things. I’m not sure what breed of dog it is. Some kind of terrier. Scottish terrier? I’m not sure. Anyway, in her examination rooms, she has pictures of her with her little black dogs, standing at various dog shows, getting their various doggy ribbons and whatnot. And on the ceiling of her exam room is a graph of every registered breed of dog. Thus, as she’s examining my kitty, I’m going through the breeds… “English Bulldog… English Sheepdog… Chihuahua… Doberman… Afghan hound…” And I have this insane urge to be funny while she’s doing this. I’ve made jokes while she’s down there, as if to apologize for the indignity of making her do such things to me.
I’m not even going to talk about speculums. They make me involuntarily convulse.
Good Lord, I cannot imagine what this will be like when I get old enough to need a yearly mammogram. I think I’m going to have to punch someone. Like maybe the person who thought up this entire practice.
I’m not asking for much, here. Maybe a Godiva mint on my little damn paper Kleenex that I get to cover my curvy round nakedness. Or maybe instead of a damn paper Kleenex, they’d give us a pashmina. That we could keep. And when people would admire it, we could say “Oh, this old thing… this is my Pelvic Pashmina.” And maybe you could get a lovely massage and exfoliating seaweed body scrub while you’re already there naked lying on a table. What is more, the doctor should send you flowers the next day. That’s not too much to ask.
You know, I hate to be a harpie bitch…. well… sometimes I hate to be a harpie bitch… sometimes I really enjoy being a harpie bitch, but not at the moment…. but if men were subjected to this entire process, it would be a lot different. There would be no stirrups. There would be no doctor with the scary instrument of deranged duck bills. There would be naked women and football and paid vacations and pork rinds and the whole thing would happen someplace cool. Maybe Vegas. I’m not sure. But I know one thing… it would be ENTIRELY different.
You know, on second though, I wouldn’t mind THAT version of a yearly exam either. I like football. Naked girls and pork rinds, not so much, but you know, I’m flexible. I’m willing to work with the system.
God, being a girl sucks sometimes. The only thing that keeps me going sometimes is the fact that I can cry and get whatever I want.
Oh, piffle. Not really. Stop looking at me like that.
Now I’m just going to hide under my desk for awhile and cringe.
