Yesterday morning I went into the shop for my annual lady parts check-up.  I can’t imagine that anyone would ever think of this as a fun thing to do, but I will let you in on a little secret.  I figured out a way to make the yearly pull back of the drapes not so awful.  First, you need to laugh out loud about the ridiculousness of it all.  Then you need to get a totally hot doctor.  Trust me, it makes a world of difference.

I have been going to the vaginacologist since my late teens.  My first one was a woman doctor in Philadelphia, and the only things I remember about that experience are that I went by myself, I wore jean overalls to the appointment (it was 1989, cut me some fashion slack), and I got my very first flat tire on the Atlantic City Expressway on the drive home.  I vaguely recall believing for a second that a police helicopter had landed upon my Honda CRX just after I passed through the Egg Harbor toll plaza (a la Goodfellas) and I figured they were coming to get me because I lied to the doctor about not having sex and needing birth control (that, apparently, is one of the things that Catholic high school guilt will do to you).

Now, after years of modesty-obliterating experiences… a vaginal delivery, four cesarean sections, a D&C procedure, three mammograms, trans-vaginal ultrasounds for every pregnancy and what seems like doctors putting everything short of a partridge in my pear tree, a simple annual exam should not faze me in the least.  Plus, it seems like every doctor I see is one of those teaching types who always has an entire boy scout troop following them around (presumably earning their pap smear badges).  So, at this point I am totally used to being naked on a table in front of a crowd.

Yet every year I get all sweaty and nervous as I sit in the chair and fill out my paperwork.  Then I get even more uneasy as I put on the paper vest and blanket (apparently it has more fashion staying power than the jean overalls) and stare at a poster of all of the possible types of uterine tumors while I wait for the nurse to come in.  Is this really the best time to take a blood pressure reading?

So I do my relaxation exercises and take deep, cleansing breaths and count backwards from ten and think of my happy place.  Then the hot doctor comes in and I feel better immediately.  Could it be that he is getting cuter?  Seriously, the man is really attractive.  I shake off the distraction and we catch up on our families and go over the standard medical stuff and he asks if there is anything I am concerned about.

I tell him about my recent weight gain and crazy mood swings and waking up in the middle of the night and not being able to go back to sleep.  He then asks me how old my mother was when she started menopause, and I tell him that he is not really that cute when he says mean things.  He rolls his eyes at me.  Then he says we should check my thyroid just in case and then he has me lie down on the table to begin the examination.

Hot Doc is totally feeling me up for a breast exam.  I am trying to be mature and maintain a professional tone, but there is this ornery part of me that always feels the uncontrollable need to say something.

“So, the one good thing about this stupid weight gain is that my boobs are totally huge now.  My husband sure isn’t complaining about that!” I say to no one in particular.  The regular nurse suppresses her laughter but the nurse-in-training at the foot of the table lets at least one giggle out before she composes herself.  Hot Doc just shakes his head.  The boy scouts titter and confirm to one another that I just said, “boobs.”

I hang on because I know we are almost at the grand finale… the internal exam.  Hot Doc is now situated between my legs with a miner’s hat and a tool that resembles a small post-hole digger.  Awesome.  I hate this part, especially because the lawyers make the docs say, “I am going to touch you now” before they start, which makes it super creepy.  It gets even more weird if the doctor makes small talk as he is nosing around down there.  Then, after the pap smear (oooh, I’m totally getting a bagel afterwards), just as Hot Doc is elbow-deep in my hoo-hah and palpating my abdomen, somebody’s phone starts to ring.

In my next life I want to come back as a lion. Nap in the sun. Eat a big steak. Repeat.

We-de-de-de, de-de-de-de-de-de, we-um-um-a-way
We-de-de-de, de-de-de-de-de-de, we-um-um-a-way

A wimoweh, a-wimoweh a-wimoweh, a-wimoweh
A wimoweh, a-wimoweh a-wimoweh, a-wimoweh
A wimoweh, a-wimoweh a-wimoweh, a-wimoweh
A wimoweh, a-wimoweh a-wimoweh, a-wimoweh

Awkward silence.

Once again the ornery in me takes control and I blurt out, “Well, it’s a good thing that I shaved this morning.  Otherwise I would be totally offended by that ringtone.”

Hot Doc actually had to put down his tools and step out of the room for a minute.  He was still wiping away laughing tears when he returned and said to me, “I’m sorry, but that was by far the funniest thing I have ever heard while sitting in this position.”

Hot Doc definitely loves me back.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…