Can We Give Women a Break?

While standing in the checkout line a couple of months ago purusing the literature (I use that term VERY loosely), I noticed an article entitled "Who's pregnant?" Below the title were three photos of female stars (I don't even remember which ones now, Britney Spears? Gwyneth Paltrow???) with ever so slight belly bulges.

Looking down at my own much larger belly bulge, I started imagining what they might plaster over my photo, "Due any day now?" "The miracle of multiple births?"

Don't we all obsess over our figures? And, what a weight it must be for celebrities whose every ripple of fat is photographed and discussed before millions of people.

I got to thinking of the "Who's pregnant?" magazine cover recently when I was again browsing the fine literary selections at the local grocery store. This time it showed a pencil-thin Angelina Jolie. She hasn't always been this thin. But, as a person who has given birth, I can tell you that it's awfully hard to have a flat stomach afterward, no matter what your weight. I wonder if she's not getting so thin to try to deal with what all mothers do--the stomach that will never, ever, ever snap back to its original position. Especially if you aren't 18 when you have your child.

I occasionally watch with my daughter a kids' show called Zoey 101. Thought not the topic of this post, it stars Britney Spears' little sister.

I noticed the last time I watched it that one of the characters on the show, a pretty young, maybe 14-year-old girl, looks like a skeleton with skin.

What I'm trying to say is that I understand all of these people. Obsession with looks is out of control among women. Male stars... do you see them pencil thin? Does society have the expectation that men always look fabulous and thin and never age?

Then why do we try????

Psycho at the Gyno--Part 2

In an earlier episode (see the July 31 entry), I had just had suffered the indignity of the gynecologist office waiting room and was being shown back to an examination room.

We continue...

The nurse takes me to a room and gets out the gown and blanket. As the smell of bandaids and other first aid equipment surrounds me, I wonder how anyone can call pieces of the thinnest paper ever produced a gown and blanket? I think they should, quite appropriately and mockingly, refer to them as gownie and blankette.

If it’s a less classy doctor—also known as “the doctor that actually takes your insurance and hasn’t gone out of business because of malpractice insurance rates”—the nurse will reach into a drawer and pull out The Instruments. (Yes, they deserve to be capitalized.)

It’s scarily similar to a scene in the movies where a fiend preparing to torture someone, with suspended and wickedly slow delight, lays out the thumbscrews, drills and various knives?

I expect to look up and see Igor, his lumpy hump under his frayed jacket, no neck, one eye bigger than the other, and a mole on his forehead with a straggly black hair poking out, looking at me, all the while rubbing his hands together gleefully and laughing maniacally. “Heh, heh, heh. Heh, heh, heh. Heh, heh, heh!”

I look up quickly but find only a middle-aged, tired of life nurse attempting a half-smile to put me at ease.

At a classier doctor’s office—also known as “the place you can’t afford”—The Instruments are already set out.

But back to our poor person doctor. (That’s right, don’t even dream.) The nurse places The Instruments on a tray by the examining table and goes to write something in her chart, giving me time to contemplate their various uses. I don’t want to look, but my eye is irresistibly drawn. What are they going to do with that? Look at the size of it. Horrible possibilities flicker through my mind. Or, gulp, I already know, and it grosses me out.

But, I’m a big girl. The body is a beautiful and natural thing. Anyway, the doctor’s done this so many times, we all look the same to her. She took this job because she wanted to help women so much that my body is practically sacred to her. Blah, blah, blah, I continue in a useless attempt to convince myself that it’s really no big deal.

While I’m furtively, but intensely glancing at The Instruments, the nurse leaves and I begin the wonderful process of getting naked in a public place without a locked door. I repeat: without a locked door.

I try to be casual, but in the back of my head a timer has started. I know eventually the doctor will give a short knock followed by the immediate opening of the door. Or, the nurse will have forgotten to set out one of The Instruments, come back to set it out, and catch me with one boob hanging out. Or standing there in nothing but my pantyhose—control top with a roll of fat bulging above the waist due to the compression of the body shaping comfort band. Or me, bent over, with the moon to the door, my underwear around my knees as I take them off. My slightly yellowed underwear. With the holes.

The safest bet is to have only half of your body exposed at any time. That way, if someone pops in, you can take just one piece of clothing and cover the vital part that is exposed.

I decide to go top first. I take off my shirt and begin to unhook my bra. Here’s the part where I have to go fast; I finish unhooking my bra, throw it down, grab the gownie from the table with speed akin to superpowers so great that my arm is just a blur, and put it on.

Now I’m safe. If someone happens to come through that unlocked door—that still mocks me—the gownie just barely covers my butt cheeks. I feel confident that if I stand facing the door with the opening of the gownie in the back, it will hide my doo-lolly and my hooch-i-macallit and all the other nakie private parts, too.

Facing the door, I take off my pants. Now, why exactly does someone buy a gown, or as we say, “gownie,” that just skims the bottom of your buttocks? Is this some gynecological competition to see who can purchase the skimpiest gowns? How much would it cost to buy, say, six more inches, so that bending over wouldn’t automatically expose the moon? What, five cents? We’re not talking quality material.

More leisurely, and after dwelling on these and other great questions of life, I finish removing the clothes from my bottom half. Next conundrum: how to arrange my clothes?

Rule #1: Your doctor cannot see your underwear. Even if it doesn’t have holes and has retained its ultra dazzling whiteness.

I know you’re asking, “Why is that a rule? Certainly the doctor knows that you wore underwear today.” Or at least hopes, and especially ones with cotton crotches for breatheability.

Like my doctor thinks I don’t wear a bra and underwear. Like she wonders, “Is it commando-city in my practice?”

Still, it’s one of those situations where everyone knows something’s there, but they have to pretend they don’t. Like a fart in an elevator.

But hiding the underwear takes strategy. Doctor’s office chairs are always positioned facing the door, so if I turn around to arrange my clothing, I again risk mooning someone who walks in the door. The unlocked door.

My strategy begins thus: Still facing the door, I pick up my underwear and fold it in half, then in half again. Nice little quarters, just like in my drawer at home. (Yeah, right!) I reach behind me to place it on the chair. Then I take my bra and fold it in half. Cup resting in cup, I place the bra on top of my underwear. The bra makes a nice little mountain on top with its thick foam cup shaping.

Next I take my pants and fold them in half, draping them exactly across the little mountain of underclothing. Finally, I hold my shirt by the collar and drape it exactly on top of the pants. Then I muss everything a little bit. I don’t want it to look like I’ve worked hard because I have on red lace thongs, underwear with a padded butt or another embarrassing undergarment.

But with the mussing combined with the slick vinyl (or the also common, plastic) chair, my clothes go cascading onto the floor, and I must begin the process again.

To be continued...

What This Blog Is About

I guess I started this blog prematurely. I first need to answer an important question: So what is this blog about?

It's about me. It's about you. It's about some people we all know. It's about society's expectations of us. It's about what those expectations do to us. And, oh, boy, what those do to us.

It's my story. And the story of many woman throughout the world.

But first, why my story... Buffeted over and over, I was caught in a horrible storm. My life had become overwhelming and stressful to the extreme. I was in chaos—body and spirit.

I laughed. I cried. I imploded. I did all the things people do when they reach the end.

I, like most women, spent too much time in insecurity and doubt. I let people take too much of me, and I gave too much away.

A dark cloud grew in my mind and began to change who I was.

I reached a point where I knew life had to change. I began a journey out of the darkness to find a safe harbor. And I found it in me.

In retrospect, I’ve discovered the incredible humor in what occurred, and I’m sharing it with you.

I imagine you’ll recognize a bit of yourself in what I’ve written. And if you do, I hope you'll share it, too.

I can’t say that I always enjoyed the journey, but I hope you will laugh until you pee yourself. In fact, you might want to put on some Depends right now.

Psycho at the Gyno: Losing It While Naked

Like all women, I enjoy a trip to the gynecologist about as much as a man enjoys buying tampons for his wife.

For me, the trauma of a gynecologist visit begins when I enter the waiting room. In the far corner is an adorable young pregnant woman, all glowing with cherubic motherliness. Straight across from me is a mother with a barely week old infant, cooing to her little one. She looks up and smiles at me, glances at my stomach and then looks down nervously.

Oh, I know what she’s thinking: She’s not pregnant. She’s probably here because she’s come down with some horrible sexually transmitted disease with a name like human asymptomatic pelvic genital papilloma-mydia-rhea B. Or she has some strange discharge that smells like sardines and looks like lumpy French cheese.

Oh, that’s right! That holier than thou thinks she’s the Virgin Mary and that I A.) am a high-end prostitute (hopefully she’s thinking high-end!) or B.) was the most popular girl in school. Popular because I was easy.

My smile disintegrates to a narrow slit, like the not-smiling and not-frowning smiley face that some people draw. (Isn’t a not-smiling smiley face an oxymoron?)

I realize I haven’t told them I’m here, and amble toward the receptionist desk, grab the clipboard, and sign in as the receptionist checks me out and then attempts to avoid eye contact. She’s pretty smug behind her sliding glass door.

I walk away and find a chair. Just when my tush has settled into the mauvey easy-clean fabric, I hear a low rumbling as the glass window in front of the receptionist rolls open.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but we need to see your insurance card,” the receptionist bellows.

I drag my comfy tush out of the chair. “My insurance hasn’t changed,” I explain.

“We still need to see your insurance card, ma’am.” Does she have to call me “ma’am”? It makes me sound so ancient.

I rummage around in my purse. Drug store card. Grocery store card. Video rental card. Library card. Credit card. Debit card. Pet store discount card. Driver’s license.

Yikes! It looks like a prostitute’s mug shot. I bet I could make a million dollars setting up glamour shot photo booths at the DMV. I’d certainly shell out an extra $20 to avoid looking like someone who should be wearing neon green leopard print spandex while standing on a street corner, waiving—fingers only—to middle-aged fat men in late model American sedans.

Garden center discount card. Prescription card. Social Security card.

I read one of those attain financial success books, and it warned that identify thieves were waiting to pounce on country bumpkins foolish enough to carry their social security card in their wallet. My first reaction was to leave it at home. But contemplating my home filing system, consisting of a laundry basket stuffed with bills, old resumes, and pictures the kids drew two years ago, I decided to take my chances with the thieves.

Business card. Dental insurance card. Other credit card. Car insurance card. Old college ID card (still good for two bucks off at the movies). Customer appreciation punch card. Finally. Insurance card.

I hand the card to the receptionist, and she immediately rolls the window shut with a vaccum suction induced “wonk!”

I saunter back to my mauvish haven and settle in. Two minutes later the window rolls open again. “Ma’am.” I hate that! “Here’s your card.”

Unable to completely stifle a sigh, I rise, retrieve my card and parade through the waiting room to my chair once more.

Another two minutes and the grind of the glass window in its track sounds again. “Ma’am?” I bite down hard to avoid growling and drag myself toward the window. “We need you to fill out these forms.”

Exasperated, I remind her that none of my information has changed. “Sorry, but it’s office policy.”

“Fine,” I mutter and sulk my way back, clipboard in hand. I bet the office workers have contests to see how many times they can make people come up to the window.

I write my name, address, age, previous maladies, etc., with a sour expression on my face and the enthusiasm of a child writing, “I will not talk in class” 500 times. My writing assignment complete, I go to turn in my missive at the desk. The receptionist opens the window, takes the forms, and says, with high and mighty superiority, “We’ll need your co-pay now. The doctor will not see you unless you pay your co-pay first.”

I swivel on one foot, like a guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, return to my chair, and rummage around in my two-ton purse for my checkbook. I pull it out only to find that I’ve run out of checks. I dive back into my cards and retrieve my debit card.

Clomp, clomp, clomp. I go back to the window and hand her the debit card. She goes to close her window, but I thrust my hands in the way, blocking her move. Touché! I’m not going anywhere until this is done. An oh-shoot-she-got-me look on her face, she quickly processes the charge and returns the card.

Confident that she can’t find additional excuses for making me get up again, I hunker down in my seat.

I look around to find a distraction to keep me from obsessing about the disgust on new mother Pollyanna’s face. Ahhh, a rack of pamphlets. There, let’s look at that one with the young woman smiling and looking contemplatively while sitting on a park bench.

I reach over, yank it out and notice that below the smiling young lady are the words “Gonorrhea and You.” Cripes!

I look to see if Angelic Angie has seen what I picked up. The now total loathing on her face tells me, yes, she has. I replace the brochure in the holder while making the Ooops! gesture (to no one in particular, but me and prego know who it’s for) with shoulders lifted, hand in front of my mouth and eyes wide in surprise.

I look at the brochures again. Certainly there has to be reading materials that will help me pass the time without embarrassing the crap out of me.

Ah-hah! That purple one. It says “Talking to Your Doctor about Infertility Treatments.” I’ve hit the jackpot! I pick up the brochure and study it intently. Then I look up with a wistful expression, complete with pouty lower lip.

And notice that Patty Perfect is buying it. I think she’s going to cry. Yes!

Just then, the nurse calls my name and I walk out, shoulders back, head held high in triumph, saved from any further shaming by my waiting roommates. And just for fun, I do a princess wave—elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist.

To be continued...