Suburban Snapshots

Party in My Pants

Friday, October 15, 2010

Today was that most marvelous of days we wait all year for, the air was crisp, the sun shining, and I, sitting bare-ass-naked over the side of the tub painstakingly preparing for my annual exam. You know, that annual exam.

It happens every year, just like a birthday, but with less cake and more invasive probing (though, I don't know you people. Probing might be your idea of a birthday party.)

The whole pre-appointment process is made exponentially more difficult by the fact that I'm hopeless without my glasses, which I can't wear into the shower while wielding a rusty, last-resort razor and a cracked sliver of soap — you don't want to throw your legs into the stirrups and have to explain the Dora Band-Aid plastered across your sensitive bits. So after several minutes of delicate navigation, awkward positioning and frequent squinting I was ready to go, and then thought to myself, shit, if they give me the hippie midwife today I'm going to be pissed I wasted all this energy.

I got to the office, weighed in, stripped down, blood pressure etc. etc., talked about the many crappy options for birth control besides our current crappiest and least-convenient method, and our previous method which ended up all, "It's a girl!," and just as we got to the part of the appointment where I begin to actually feel my entire reproductive system trying to tuck itself up behind my esophagus, someone knocked at the door and Jean left with a quick apology and her stethoscope.

I laid myself back wrapped in the green and white johnny, pulled out my phone and checked email, contemplated but thought better of posting a Facebook photo of the knitted uterus hanging on a bulletin board across the room, and responded to a text from my sister who wanted to know "where the f r u?" ("GYN u r jels"). About 15 minutes later a medical assistant came to apologetically tell me that Jean wouldn't back to examine my immaculate business. It was even worse than the hippie midwife scenario.

I climbed back into my jeans, marveling at the all-the-way-up feeling of smooth (because within an hour I'd be clawing at my southern hemisphere like a desperate junkie), and not exactly jonesing to do it all over again in two weeks.

On the plus side, I now have plenty of time to buy a new razor.

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