This is part five of a series on the joys of visiting the gynecologist. (Oh, you know you love it so. Yuck!) You may want to go back and read the other parts to catch up.
But, be forewarned: If you're at work, you may laugh really hysterically and get in trouble. So get ready to cover it up with a fake cough. Just say, "I think I've got the West Nile," and people will run for the hills."
So here we go...
I figure it’s best to avoid the breast cross section. Too far away. I decide to check out a poster closer to the table. “The Female Reproductive System.”
Did you ever notice that your reproductive system looks like a ram with the fallopian tubes being the big curly horns? I start to read the poster and realize I don’t know the name of all my parts.
Well, I guess I already knew that I was ignorant about female anatomy. About a year ago, my daughter asked me, “Do girls have a wiener?” My first thought was to say, “At every baseball game they do.” But I knew what she meant.
I decided to use this moment as an opportunity to throw open the doors barring communication and discuss the wonders of the female reproductive system. But then I realized that I didn't know all my parts or exactly how they fit together.
Instead, I said, “No. We have a vagina. And don’t say wiener again or it’ll be a timeout for you, missy!” Looking at my daughter’s confused expression, I heard a vague “Thunk,” and realized that the doors of communication had just slammed shut.
And I think I heard them lock.
This poster is a chance to redeem myself. If I study the chart, I can use my new-found knowledge to enlighten my daughter.
Nah, that’s boring, I think and look around for something more scintillating.
What are those nasty gross-out pictures at the bottom? “Diseases of the Female Reproductive System.”
Great! Now everything hurts. I think my ovaries hurt. And my uterus, wherever it is. And all those other things I can’t name, too.
That’s it. No more educational health knowledge for me. Ignorance is bliss, or at least ignorance is a lack of psychologically induced pain.
I sit there daydreaming a few minutes until I start noticing that my breasts are sagging. You see, I have large breasts. Some women might think that having a large bosom is like hitting the sexuality jackpot. I’ll admit that boys were mesmerized by my breasts when I was younger, and I was probably the envy of some girls. But, ogling men just don’t compensate for the negatives.
Large breasts weigh a lot. Now that I’m older and things are beginning to sag, if I lay on my back without a bra, I feel like someone is trying to tear my chest apart for open heart surgery. Plus, the place where my boobs and chest overlap is a big sweaty mess.
Thinking of sweaty messes reminds me of my butt, and I remember the torn piece of crinkly paper underneath. But, I figure, not to worry! The tear is hidden, just like my underwear.
While glancing down watching my exposed skin turn different shades of blue and purple, I notice the vinyl floor has a multi-colored speckled pattern. Come to think of it, all doctors’ offices have a similarly patterned floor. Huhn. They must get a bulk discount.
But then it hits me: They pick this pattern because it hides stuff that falls on the floor. Then I think of the kind of stuff they’d need to hide in this office, like blood and tissue and discharge and other bodily fluids. Ewwww! I just walked barefoot on that. Why didn't I remember my socks?
Then I wait. And wait. And wait. 20 minutes. 30 minutes. 40 minutes.
It takes so long I wonder why I ever worried about them walking in while I was getting dressed. More likely they’ll walk in the moment I die of old age. Just in time to cover me up with a sheet.
No, wait. Ain't no sheets in this joint. I guess they’d have to try and cover me with the blankette. Then, frustrated by its inadequate size, they’d tug to see if it was fully expanded, rip it and then try to glue it back together with their saliva. Hah! Then I’d have the last laugh.
I guess it would be more of a death gurgle. But still.
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