I had an appointment the other day. Like the appointment. The one that we women get once a year. Where we shower, shave, and lotion up like we’re getting ready for a second date.
(if any men happen to read my blog, now would be a good time to exit.)
For the most part, I don’t hate it. I know it’s just part of life, has to be done, blah blah blah.
But I need to talk out a few things.
See, I get nervous when the assistant tells me it’s time to “get undressed, the gown is on the table, tag goes in the back, doctor will be in shortly.”
That is when I break into a sweat.
Like, how much time do I have before the doctor comes in? What if I can’t find the tag and I put the gown on wrong? What if someone walks in while I’m still trying to figure out which is front and which is back?! What if stuff is hanging out the front that isn’t supposed to be? But when I’m sitting on the table, things are hanging out that side that I don’t think should be.
I’m sweaty. So much sweat.
Normally the only time I’m getting naked the lights are out, and I don’t have to worry about any tags. Front or back. Things can be hanging here or there and no one knows because it is dark.
Why can’t these exams happen in the dark??
So, in this gown. Sitting on the table. Sweaty. And thinking about how if I could choose to be a dude right now, I totally would.
Doctor comes in.
We talk about how maybe I’ve gained some weight. Maybe I’ve traded running marathons to Netflix marathons. Maybe I’ve traded the time I used to put into exercising to caring for 67 animals.
I don’t have time for exercise, Doc, I have pigs to wrangle, a baby goat to snuggle, and eggs to collect. I may be getting fat, but I am happy.
Now it’s time to lie down. Then all the things roll to the side and flop down on the table. The breast exam is always first. [groan] So she has to pick the first one up off the table before she can examine it, and I’m just sure that second one has rolled off the table and is heading for the door.
Waiiit for meee!!
That part finally gets over, it’s time to sit up (now the girls finally fall to either side of my belly button and land in my lap), but move on down. Down further.
My word, I think I might fall off this table. Oh, geez, I need a pedicure.
You’re going to feel some pressure.
Why isn’t it dark in here? Can we turn the lights off now?
The whole ordeal is over relatively quickly [sounds about right], and I can now get dressed.
Again with the fumbling of the clothes, I can’t even put my own underwear on without tripping all over the place trying to hurry for fear of being walked in on.
I grab that one boob that scurried out the door and shove er on in, whispering sweet nothings to her in assurance she doesn’t have to come back for a whole notha year.
I walked into that doctor’s office looking and smelling like a million bucks.
However, I’m leaving looking like I just wrestled a pack of wild dogs. My very own walk of shame.