Get ready.
It’s summertime, and—hip hip hooray!—also time for me to get that yearly pelvic treat we females get to look forward to once we’ve made the mistake of making the decision that we’re “ready” to indulge in the primal act that is ultimately indulging a guy’s libido (and knocking up enough sixteen-year-olds for MTV to make a show about it!) … ugh.
So it’s that time, that day. I’m waiting to “be seen” (how polite) by “Dr. Janet Kross*,” who is so accustomed to this trade that, although “uncomfortable” seems like an appropriate word for a situation involving a thorough fingering of the vaginal canal and speculum inspection of the cervix, it isn’t.
My name (pronounced incorrectly, of course) is called, and the nurse leads me on what I think should be called “The Grey Mile” (like the movie The Green Mile, you know? Except this is a doctor’s office, not a criminal institution, and doctor’s offices tend to have grey carpet … get it? Haha.), past the counter shelving unused pee cups and latex gloves, and to a scale. This is only the beginning of what I don’t like about today. I feel like scales at doctor’s offices add imaginary weight. The number is recorded and the nurse takes me to the “examination room,” sits behind a laptop and asks me questions like, “Ever had an abnormal pap?” “Do you do a monthly breast-check?” “Besides the birth control, what other medicines do you take regularly?” “When was your last menstrual cycle?” (“Oh, you are so good!” she exclaims with relieved approval after I answer with no hesitation. Most of the girls around my age and younger that she asks probably say, “I don’t know” or “I’m not sure.” I used to be one of them, until I realized that in order to have my cake and eat it too [that is, have sex and not get pregnant], I needed to be in tune with the way my body does its thang.) And finally, “How is your birth control working for you?” (I know what she means, but my devilish smartass tendency flares and makes me want to raise my shirt to expose my hip-hop abs and say, “Guess.”)
She points to the gauzy medical gown folded on the table and tells me to change into it. There’s a sheet to cover my legs with until the doctor examines me, I’m told. What for? I think. Didn’t anybody tell you what’s about to happen in here?
Once she leaves I take the gown, unfold it, then undress wondering how in the world I’m supposed to put it on. They’re unnecessarily confusing. But seeing as the doctor is about to excavate my most private of places, I realize that prolonging the clothing-myself war would really serve no purpose. No sweat off my back. I might as well be naked.
I lie back on the luxurious exam table and count the tiles on the ceiling. Directly above where my head rests is a square poster. Brightly colored and attention-grabbing like graffiti, I wonder what it’s doing up there. Am I supposed to see it and forget that I probably look like I’m birthing some kind of robot after the doctor inserts the instrument into my vagina with the weird plastic arm that emits a fluorescent purple-blue light? I look around at the corny laminated info posters tacked up on the walls and expect waiting-room jazz to come on to complement the environment. Instead, there’s a knock at the door (in case I’m still changing … haha). After a moment of silence it opens, and in walks Dr. Kross.
I’m not sure whether or not it’s rude to say that someone looks “interesting,” but she does. As I write this, the only specific word that is coming to mind to describe her is “mousy.” It feels rude to think that, but I do.
