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Thursday, March 26, 2009

"Skootch Just A Little Closer To The Edge Of The Table" 
or dude, could you at least warm that thing up first... 

Okay, so I had my annual Gyney appointment this morning. For those of the male persuasion, this is the most dreaded, anxiety-filled and mortifying doctor's appointment in a gal's entire life. I'm not kidding. Most women would rather have naked pictures of themselves posted on the internet than go to this appointment. Okay, maybe naked pictures on the internet is not the best example, but you get the idea.

*Note to readers of the male persuasion...you might want to stop reading now. Details are following.**

The only good thing about a Gyney exam is it is mercifully short--weighing in at a mere five minutes. 

That's the good news. 


The bad news is the anxiety starts in earnest the morning of.. what with the extra shaving and plucking in an attempt to pretend that, you know, you aren't a Yeti. Because you don't want this Dr. Dude to be put off by your unkempt cooter while he's jamming his five-foot-wide, man-hands up your love canal to squeeze the life out of your ovaries in a misguided attempt to find buried treasure. Sometimes I swear to God he's left his wedding ring and keys behind. Am I right ladies?

The whole experience is just bizarre. You're in this gown--open in the front--with a sheet draped over your lap. Then the doc instructs you to "skootch to the end of the table and put your feet in the stirrups". Yeah...nothing awkward about that besides the fact his face is going to be about an inch from your freshly groomed betty

Next up he pulls out an enormous, icy-cold scissor jack from the back of his car, known in the medical community as a speculum, to crank open your girlie bits to the size of manhole. Then I swear to God he straps on a miner's helmut light, ducks behind the thin curtain of sheeting and sends a canary in to test the air. This is when you pray you washed well enough that morning, because, you know, nobody wants a dead canary stinking up her squish mitten. People will talk. 

This is also when he decides to engage in conversation, which always makes me chuckle because I envision cartoon thought bubbles coming from behind the draped sheet. "So, how about that Pens game last night?" "You want I should check the engine while I'm in here?"  Just a little mental exercise to get me through and block the horror.

One quick scraping with a 28" bottle brush, an oil change and an MP3 port installation later, he hangs a tiny pine tree air freshener on my tube and closes up shop for another year. 

Nothing left to do except scoop up your clothes along with what's left of your dignity and head home. Seriously, next time he's buying me a drink beforehand...

Ain't it grand being a girl?

3 comments:

~*Jenna*~ said...

Oh god, that is too funny and too true! Where do you come up with these hysterical names?! A squish mitten? That's clearly gold, and I'll be adding it to my vernacular immediately... infact I better go find my husband and use it now, it's burning a whole in my brain (the word, not the actual thing). I so look forward to your posts, the brighten my day and make me laugh!

Gary said...

You left out "woo-woo." That's my favorite pet name for the female apparatus, but to be honest, this is the funniest thing I've read in a long time.

shauna glenn said...

Funny post.

I *totally* feel your pain, girl.