I had to go to the doctor today for my annual checkup. Honestly, aside from adding a balcony and inviting friends and family in to observe, I can’t think of how a visit to the gynecologist could be any more ick. What’s so bad about it? Here’s my quick list.
- First of all, I hate the word gynecologist. It somehow sounds both whiny and guttural.
- The weighing and the measuring. Each year I’m slightly shorter. How? My doctor told me to picture the spaces between my vertebrae as jelly doughnuts that are being compressed. Lovely. And now I want doughnuts. Thanks.
- The poking and the prodding. No explanation needed.
- Worse than the poking and the prodding? Having to carry on inane conversation during said poking and prodding.
- Worse still? Debating politics. That’s what my doctor wanted to do today. Dude, you have clothes on. You’re standing up. You win.
- The assistant/witness. Is she there to help the doctor or to guard against lawsuits? Whichever it is, the demands of her role are minimal enough that I can’t help but feel she has plenty of time to judge my personal grooming, my pedicure, and my thighs.
Ick, right?
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