"Can I talk to you now?" He asked facetiously, a smirk emblazoned across his face. "After all, it’s been more than three years."
"No!" I responded firmly, glaring at him through the hills created by my stirruped legs. "Look Star, just get on with it!"
That is an extract from a snarly conversation that I had with my gynecologist today.
Though I had given him my explicit rules when we initiated our relationship more than three years ago, I cannot begin to fathom why he would erroneously conclude that time would mellow my requirements as to how he is to administer my check up. I figured that he is getting complacent as our relationship has progressed, and as such, he had to be set firmly in his place. I also wanted to launch a well placed kick from the confines of a stirrup, when I realized that my response did not faze him one bit, as he had emitted an unrepentant chuckle.
The man seems to find some source of amusement at my discomfort, as evidenced by his ridiculous whistling as he pokes and prods. I just want to slap him. And then, he has the nerve to initiate conversation today! Two slaps!
Call it my own brand of insecurity (though I call it plain common sense), but why the heck would I want to engage in casual banter with the man as he delves between my nether regions with metallic weapons of crotch destruction, and nary a bit of pleasure am I to get from it?
There layeth I: legs hoisted in metallic stirrups, gazing resignedly at the ceiling, working to find my Zen-like happy place through the mechanism of counting the moldy ceiling tiles as I ponder: is mine like everyone else’s? Is it too big? Too small? Well maintained? Has he seen better or worst? Has he ever been blown away by its extraordinary quality? Is there a significant improvement from last year? Does his wife benefit sexually from his medical expertise? Is one just like the other?
Prior to each visit, paranoia, pride and insecurity will always drive me to ensure that it is well groomed. I even try to refrain from peeing before he has a chance to look at it, for I don’t know the impact that my pee and required wiping may have on its aesthetics.
I was in the supermarket the other day, contemplating the purchase of fresh vegetables which will eventually rot in the confines of my refrigerator, when I looked up, and his and mine eyes made four. I paled, panicked, and fled.
There was I, dressed and feeling all prissy and dainty, and this man who had and will see me nekkid every year; he who has assessed the inner workings of my unmentionables; he who knows the ins and outs of my cycle; he who felt and knew of the sensitivities of my boobs, and asked questions that not even my significant other would be privy to, could never engage me in casual conversation or even a greeting over fresh broccoli. Oh, hell no!
And on that decidedly prudish note, I shall now exit.
'Fro.
