Listen. None of us wants to be at the gynecologist, but we know we have to take care of our bodies. That means an annual check-up of our lady parts is in order. I just have a few things I’d like to say while I’m there.
Can we skip the weigh-in?
I’m bloated twenty days out of every month. I don’t need three glaring numbers reminding me to skip Burger King on the way home. Can we do a visual estimation and call it good? She looks larger than last time but is not quite ready for a Richard Simmons intervention works for me.
Where’s the panty coat rack?
Just once, I’d love to enter an examination room and see a place to store/hang my coat (and other clothing) while being poked and prodded examined. I’m tired of hiding my panties under my jeans that are rolled into a wad and stuck on a chair that thirty other naked women have already sat in that day.
The last day of my last period? You’re so funny!
I can’t remember what I ate for breakfast. The date of my last period? Approximately one month to you better hurry up and get this examination done days ago.
Can we kill the fluorescent lights?
Know what destroys a girl’s self esteem faster than JLo walking into a room? Fluorescent mothereffing lighting. There’s a miner’s spotlight on your forehead. Is more necessary?
Do you have something a little bigger than a tissue paper doily that I can cover with?
I’m not 2. I weigh more than 50 pounds. And I’m definitely taller than three feet six inches. I require an actual full-size blanket or throw and preferably one not made from gift bag filling. Could I borrow that fabric room divider?
If I could SEE the stirrups, I’d definitely put my ankles in there.
You’re lying on your back (without pillows) trying to focus on anything but what’s happening down south when dear ole’ doc says, “Could you put your ankles in the stirrups?”
Seriously, dude? I just got comfortable, found an interesting piece of torn ceiling plaster to focus on (it’s shaped like Florida), and you’re asking me to find the stirrups? Pamper a girl. Put her ankles in there for her. It will feel like a day at the spa.
Yes, I can slide down more, but honestly, I don’t want my ass to land on your feet.
Positioning yourself on a gynecological examination table is like landing a Boeing 747 at a small jetport. The clearance is limited and you have to inch your way to near disaster. There’s also the moment of feeling like a total idiot when you ask, “Is that far enough?” (Shit. Too far.)
D’FUQ?! That’s cold!
From his (or her) hands to the stretch-a-hoo-ha nut cracker looking contraption, every damn thing used down there feels like it just came out of a freezer. Can we get a warming tray, perhaps? And a glass of wine?
You’ve tunneled to China through my vagina! Yeah, it hurts a little.
I understand that doctors are obligated to ask these types of questions. I totally get that empathy is part of the job.
But we’re all adults. Let’s assume that it hurts and ask on a scale of one to ten how much — one being the headache my toddler gives me after screaming for twenty minutes and ten being just after my husband stubs his toe.
Excuse me. Where are my parting gifts? SWAG bag? Do I get ANYTHING after enduring that type of poking?
A visit to the dentist scores us a new toothbrush. The eye doctor sends us packing with free contact lenses. What do we get after a visit to the gynecologist? A big, fat nothing. Even a George Clooney sticker would be nice. Or a discount coupon for laser hair removal.
Before you get your petunias in a bunch, I AM thankful for my gynecologist who has saved my life on more than one occasion. So remember to schedule your annual exams!
Now, what would you like to say to your gynecologist?