You guys have totally noticed that going to the gynecologist is super weird and awkward, right? I thought so.
First, they make you sit in a waiting room with other patients. Some are visibly pregnant, so it’s easy to tell why they’re there. Others, though? They could be there for a number of reasons, the possibilities for which run through each patient’s mind as she scans the room, fantasizing about what brought her fellow waiting room dwellers to this crossing of paths.
Take the middle aged lady in the corner, for example. She’s definitely there because her plumbing’s dried up. The cycle of life. And the 20-something furiously reading brochures behind the plant? STD, hands down. As for the teenager uncomfortably shifting in the seat by her mother — she’s either there for her first physician probing or because her mother recently discovered she’s sexually active. On second thought, it’s definitely the latter. Mom’s tapping foot and furrowed brow are a clear giveaway.
Don’t act like you don’t do it. Because you totally do. And if you do, so does everyone else. And what do you think they’ve concluded about you?
Next, they make you fill out a bunch of paperwork asking you if you are being or have ever been physically or sexually abused by your partner, whether or not you are trading or have ever traded sex for drugs or money, if there’s anything weird going on “down there” that you want to get off your chest, and if you’d like to talk about it at your visit today.
[/nextpage] [nextpage title=”Page 2″ ]Why yes, doc, now that you mention it, I think I would like to have a little one-on-one about my vagina’s extracurricular activities. I’m so glad you asked in writing because I’m certain I never would have agreed to discuss it if you had simply approached me like, I don’t know, A REGULAR HUMAN BEING. Putting it in ink and making anything embarrassing a part of my permanent record is much more appealing.
After that, they make you get undressed and hop up on a table, legs spread wider than a panoramic picture of a football field, and then they verbally walk you through their probing. That’s my hand. A little pressure. Two fingers. A little pressure. Now the instrument. A little cold. A little gooey. A little pressure as I crank this thing up to the size of a basketball. Now I’m going to shove my fist in there and squeeze your ovaries. Are you uncomfortable? Really? I can’t imagine why you’d be uncomfortable. Haven’t you ever had your ovaries popped like a pair of grapes? It’s only a little pressure. OK, all looks good!
Lastly, after you de-goo and re-clothe, you have to do the walk of shame past the remaining exam rooms and back into the waiting room with the menopausal woman and the young lady with the STD and the sexually active teenager who all eyeball you, looking for signs that their guess as to why you’re there was correct and nervously awaiting their turn to be tortured.
Being a woman is AWESOME, no?
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