spread ‘em

So… once a year women of all shapes, ages, and sizes make the dreaded but necessary trip to the gynecologist.

Pretty much NOTHING can make this visit fun. 

This is a time in a woman's life when privacy, self-esteem, and confidence get thrown right out the window in an effort to take care of our bodies so we can stick around for the ones we love.

This brief but God-awful visit elicits all sorts of emotions, interesting conversations among women, and – jokes such as this one.

(Hardy, har, har.)

As you calmly sit in the waiting room writing down your entire sexual history (right hahaha) past surgeries, family history, the name of your first dog, (the list goes on and on) you listen for a nurse to call your name.

It's almost a relief when it gets called, too, because you know that you’re that much closer to being fully clothed and in your car on the way to a memory-erasing destination – chocolate.

Next, the nurse leads you to the "Money Room" and makes you pay for the good doctor to go to third base with you and soon after takes you to another room to talk about things you don't even tell your own mother.

Good times.

After that, she tells you to take everything off, put on the gown, and tie it in the front.

This is typically my calm before the storm because as soon as she leaves, I immediately jump off the table in this mad dash to get completely undressed and clothed in the Wendy’s napkin they call a gown before the doctor comes back in – as though he’s just waiting right outside the door to burst in and catch me naked. Gotcha!

Then I wildly search the room like a dog with a bone looking for the best place to bury my underwear and bra so that the good doctor doesn't see something so private and personal.

Because that would be embarrassing right?

Finally, in my tasmanian devil-like state, I catapult myself on the table and fiercely don my feet with the socks I threw in my purse just for this visit.

I can't let him see my feet – my vagina insides yes –but my feet, mm-mm no.

Then I smooth my hair and wait (calm, cool, and collected as though this was nothing).

As the doctor and nurse make their entrance we exchange some pleasantries, and I know it’s time for the next thing I dread.

The scooch.

You know what I’m talking about.

I must have a deficiency when it comes to depth perception because I NEVER get it right the first time.

When I lay down I’m always asked to scooch down to the end.

“Further.” (wiggle, wiggle, wiggle)

“A little further.” (wiggle, wiggle, wiggle)

There’s nothing quite like doing a laying down, sprawled out naked scooch while being watched by both a doctor and the nurse peering over his shoulder waiting for a CLOSER view of the wonder between my legs.

We are now at the part of the visit where the "talky" doctor does what he does best… talking all the while.

They must have a course in med school that teaches doctors to talk incessantly about ordinary everyday things as they poke, prod, and rub things. Who is this making comfortable?

In the end, the glorious end, he tells you to get dressed and how great it was seeing you yada, yada, yada, and wraps it up with a big 'ole smile.

I get dressed as quickly as I undressed, and whisk myself back to my car.

I love being a woman.   :)