no, not time to see the dentist or my accountant (although, april 15th IS just around the corner . . .).
it's time for my yearly nether region check-up. or, as an ex-boyfriend used to call it, "the heart of darkness" check-up. which i think is totally bogus, not the least of which because there aren't any skulls or savages in my vagina.
not yet, anyway.
i really should be a big girl and cut out all the bullshit, but i have a bad track record with gynos. really bad.
until recently, i've always had male gynecologists. not a problem, right? wrong. they were either too nice (read: creepy) or mean ("why does a single woman need birth control?" i shit you not. a gyno ACTUALLY said that to me once). either over-the-top male feminists or misogynists.
but like i said, my current gynecologist is a woman. and a damn good, solid, honest, intelligent one at that. a real broad. a woman's woman. and i like her.
so, why don't i want to go?
i'll tell you.
last time i went to see dr. j, i nearly committed suicide.
where shall i begin?
let's start with the bathroom debacle.
i arrive and ask to use the ladies'. so, i go. but because i am a SERIOUS germophobe, i don't sit on the toilet. i hover. but because i bend too far over, the piss runs off my crotch and onto my underwear, pants and i even get some on my socks.
then, dr. j's lovely nurse escorts me into the examination room, instructs me to disrobe fully and hands me a napkin.
ok, ok, it wasn't a napkin, it was a hospital gown the size of a napkin.
ok, ok, it wasn't a small gown, i'm just a fatass.
that's right, i said it: i'm a fatass.
i get naked and try putting on the gown and it only covers the front of my body.
so, i sit in the examination chair and wedge myself in, hiding my backside, but not my complete and utter humiliation. not a problem, though. i'm used to humiliation.
dr. j finally comes in and we chit-chat, blah, blah, blah . . .
it's time for the exam.
she gets up and steps on the pedal that turns the examination chair in which i'm sitting into an examination table--almost as if by magic (but really it's hydraulics).
BUT NOOOOOOO . . .
not this time friends.
the chair/table begins making the sorts of sounds buffalo make when they're fucking. wild, beastly, primitive, undomesticated, feral, barbaric fucking.
it snorts. it coughs. it barks. it moans. it wails and whines and whimpers and whoops and eventually CATCHES FIRE under the strain of lifting my robust figure.
ok, it wasn't a really big fire or anything, but it was a fire nevertheless! there was smoke, alright?!
all the while, dr. j smiles awkwardly, sheepishly and says, "
uh, NO, dr. j, i just need liposuction and a muzzle.
then, both of us, red-faced and rattled, get up and move to the examination room next door.
well, dr. j does.
me? i stay put, mortified on a number of levels. i mean, honestly, does she really expect me to move? i would rather die, joan-of-arc-style, in a blaze of glory, spread-eagled and bare-assed, rather than prolong the abasement any longer.
plus, if i DO get up, the entire, continent-sized span of my white, latina ass will be on full display in front of god and everyone.
dr. j immediately sees the, erm, problem and hands me ANOTHER gown to put on, in reverse.
YES, TWO GOWNS . . . one MASSIVE ass.
so aaaaaaanyway, if cancer weren't so scary, then i might be willing go toe-to-toe with it just to avoid another medical mishap . . .