So I had my annual gyno appointment Monday. It was a hoot. It always is.
If you’re a dude, don’t stop reading just because I said “gyno”. Don’t worry; it’s going to be okay. I’ll ease you into it.
I don’t like going to the doctor. I know that probably very few people do. I’ve never really met anyone excited about it. But I like to think that somewhere out there in the world are people who really enjoy the feedback and want all sorts of probing questions asked of them and to be poked and prodded and looked at with one eyebrow up and a look of distaste for their physical form.
But I’m sure even those folks don’t enjoy vagina doctors.
Listen, I’m just calling them what they are.
I always have to answer all these questions about myself on a little form before I can be seen. They’re the same questions I answer any time I go to a doctor of any sort: smoking, drinking, sexual activity, blah blah blah. But this year I found a new one: “Do you wear your seatbelt?”
This seems strange to me on many levels. Mostly on the level that I’m not entirely sure how whether I wear my seat belt directly impacts the health of my Twinkie-lee. Obviously if I’m in a car accident there are many physical concerns, but to be honest the safety of my Sugar Basin was never one of them.
Usually when you tell the truth on those questionnaires, you have to have a firm talking to from the doc when they see you. Luckily, I wear my seat belt, so I didn’t have to have an in-depth discussion about the impact of wearing one for the sake of my Lady Jane. Though I must admit, I was tempted to just for a good time.
Instead I got to have a lively conversation about a separate question for which I chose to tell the truth: “Do you exercise regularly?”
It’s the term ‘regularly’ that I really can’t get around. So I checked ‘no’. And seeing that my weight has increased each year in parallel to my age, my doc decided it was time to have a chat. I explained that even though her chart says I gained weight from last year, what she doesn’t know is that I actually gained a lot of weight since last year and over the past few months have lost it.
She was unimpressed. Rightly so. After all, I’m a little more Jabba the Hutt-y than I would prefer.
I think the real kicker was when she asked what I was doing and I emphasized that I’m eating better and walking a lot (thanks again, no car). Her response was “Walking is what I tell my 80-year-old patients to do. Kick it up a notch, k?”
She really is very charming.
So after I felt all fat and disgusting, she violated me, as vagina doctors are paid to do. There’s something so cold and calculated about it. I appreciate her holding casual conversation with me as she geared up to probe my Cave of Harmony, but I can only be so chummy when you flash a cartoon-sized economy tube of “EZ GLIDE” jelly and squeeze it into your hand as we converse. Under any other circumstances, I would run away screaming and fumble for my phone to dial 9-1-1. So the fact that I’m paying her to do it to me makes me feel like there is a deep, deep injustice taking place here. Or perhaps something prostitutional.
I like that new word I just made there. “Prostitutional”. It sounds patriotic.
At any rate, there needs to be some word for it, because “annual check-up” doesn’t really capture the magic of the moment.
I’d like to think that I’m on the path toward healthy living. Actually, I know I am because I’ve been consistently losing weight and eating better for a few months now. I think that when I’m all svelte and wonderful and people ask what my secret is, I’ll tell them my vagina doctor yelled at me. I’ll tell them I did it for the sake of my Ace of Spades and nothing else. They’ll be surprised to hear that weight gain was such a concern for the Wonder Down Under and I’d like to see the reactions.
Especially when I tell them that’s why I’m always sure to wear a seat belt too. ♣