I went for my annual lady parts exam recently, and as usual, the visit weird-ed me out. For starters, this was the first time in many years that I had to go straight from work to my appointment. Typically I take the morning to shower, shave, primp, and coif, not only to avoid any embarrassing questions or “discoveries” but also to psyche myself up for the truly invasive and uncomfortable experience. I don’t know about you, but when I feel beautiful, I’m able to handle awkward situations like this with at least a tiny amount of grace.
Anyhoo, I didn’t have time for any of that and had to present myself to the doctor after a long day of teaching teenagers. I suppose it says something about my maturity level that I didn’t really care that I wore non-matching underwear, that much of my deodorant had worn off, and that I was running 15 minutes late. (And of course I hadn’t updated my paperwork online, and hadn’t informed the office of my change in insurance, both of which never would have escaped my radar in pre-working years.) Suffice it to say, I was a hot mess when I strolled through those glass doors.
What-evs. Me and my gyno go way back. I calculated today that I have known him for 15 years now. If I can’t be a bit disheveled around him, who can I be? I mean, let’s be honest: he’s seen things that even my husband hasn’t (and frankly, doesn’t care to).
I’m not going to lie, though. It was still unnerving. Men, if you are still reading this, imagine having a normal conversation with a woman who’s examining every single part of you while you’re buck naked. Sounds pretty good, huh? Well now imagine that the woman is a man, and that he’s “handling” your wife. See how it changes things? Un-COMF-tabul.
But we both know how to play the game and pretend that nothing unusual is unfolding as we talk about summer plans and kids’ activities. And probably for him at least, nothing out of the ordinary is occurring. Most likely, he’d already completed 20-plus exams before I even showed up. But for me, though I hear myself casually saying, “Yah, we’re really excited about going to Egypt in June” my brain is screaming “Oh no! Stop! I’m not presentable.”
Ah well, such are the trials of pre-menopausal women with attractive gynecologists everywhere. At least it’s only once a year. Peace out.