Sunday, January 29, 2012

Second Verse, Same as the First

Everything I feel like writing about is a copy cat of something I've read recently, and since that's plagiarism and punishable by law (even on the internet) (I think) I decided to just plagiarize myself and repeat an old entry that my six old readers have hopefully forgotten and my three new readers didn't dig back far enough to ever have seen.

Also, today I'm specializing in run on sentences apparently. So there's that.

From November 2005. Enjoy.

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Raise Your Hand

I have a doctor's appointment today, for my yearly woman's checkup, which is quite different than your run of the mill annual checkup, and which freaks me out every year. Not because I am afraid of doctors, but because I am really uncomfortable hoisting my arse onto a table for anyone, medical degree or not, to sit and stare at.

I prepare for these appointments in much the same manner that I prepare for 'the date.' You know 'the date'... the one where you go from kissing friends to lovers. It is the date of matching underwear and an encounter with a razor. THAT date.

While I don't feel the need to wear my racy lacies, I do feel strongly that my underwear must match. This is ridiculous, as the doctor does not actually see my underwear, since she will walk out of the room while I undress (why is that? You are going to be staring at my cervix, but my bra is off limits? Not that I'm complaining, but I'm curious).

I also strongly feel that all stray hairs need to be eliminated, and the area should come off as freshly scented, like those commercials that promise you you'll smell like springtime flowers instead of what that area generally smells like: a vagina. Despite the fact that a gynecologist, and particularly an obsetrician-gynecologist, has likely seen vaginas in many stages of distress, I become convinced that should mine be less than flawless, I will be the subject of guffawed laughter at the next medical convention. I just don't want my nether regions being compared to members of the first family over tea and crumpets, you know?

So I'm groomed and scented, and trying to avoid having to pee because I'm afraid a stray droplet might scent my skin and I won't smell like lavender in May anymore. This is a choice I don't think men ever have to encounter: either pee and risk smelling altogether too natural, or hold it and risk surprising the doctor when she pokes you without warning. Life is unfair.

I'm trying to be mature. I've seen The Vagina Monologues. I watch progressive film and television. I am in my mid thirties and no longer try to hide my feminine purchases as I walk to the CVS register. I have given birth, which means I spent a twenty four hour period with all sorts of people looking at my 'private' (my name for it since I was a child), and placing monitors and needles and hands inside it in an attempt to extract my nearly nine pound child. A routine yearly examine should not be cause for concern.

But I don't have labor pains to distract me. I'm completely alert and aware that I can't ingest anything which may cause even the remotest hint of gas until the visit is over. And I have to survive the entire morning look confident, confident, dry and secure, while my doctor pokes and prods and talks to me about cervical health and menstrual periods.

So here I sit, watching the clock, thirsty as hell and refusing to approach the soda machine, until it's time to go.

Man, I feel like a woman.

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