Memoirs of a Young Biddy: The Annual Gynecologist Appointment

Semi-annual, at least. This is the doctor's visit that requires at least three pre-appointment shots (of Buttery Nipples, of course), one run through the rosary and at least seven good glances of Dirk Diggler's dong in Boogie Nights. It is a wonder that us biddies even manage to make it out of bed on the morning of this barbaric violation.

Your day begins with going through the list of various scenarios that would make it okay for you to cancel the inevitable 10 AM appointment. 

"UGH, I have a huge deadline at work coming up, gotta cancel!"

"I have no more Special K cereal left in the house, it is absolutely vital that I pick it up from the grocery store at precisely 10 AM."

"Today is just not a good day, it's the thirteenth anniversary of my pet bird's death (Mr. Jerry). It also just happens to be the thirteenth anniversary of the day that we bought him."

"My vagina is in a very bashful mood this morning, I just can not do that to my precious baby right now."

"ISIS"

"FEMINISM"

"CHARLIE SHEEN"

Just about anything you can think of...

But then, you realize, all this will do is delay the inevitable sense of degradation and humiliation you will feel while your feet are in those fateful stirrups, your junk is under a spotlight and you have some stranger's face directly staring at your lady parts. Judging, inspecting and probing you at your, arguably, worst angle ever. 

So, you just bite the bullet, and you get your ass (and vagina) to the doctor's office only to wait in waiting room for what feels like a million and one episodes of Friends. What's more, everyone in the doctor's office seems to be staring at you because they know you are about to be penetrated by a metal object that looks like a swan's beak (and not in a good way!!!!)

Then... just when you were getting settled into your chair, just when you were really getting into your People magazine article about Kourtney Kardashian's newborn demon in the making, your name is called. After this, things begin to become a blur.

A blur of peeing into a cup, finding out you have gained 15 pounds since your last visit and finally... and the most terrifying... getting butt ass naked. Once you are naked, the struggle becomes real, the struggle becomes impending and you realize it is no longer a distant thing to be anxious about, but rather, a thing that is in your immediate future. Nothing can save you now, nothing can stop what is about to happen.

After a series of unimportant sexual questions by a nurse (sometimes even the perplexing occasional, "are you post-menopausal yet?") you are left in the room with your own thoughts. They say that during this time you can see your whole life flash before you but... I see nothing. All I see is that tube of lube, the speculum and those stirrups below me--taunting me, mocking me and ruining any chance I had for happiness (for next thirty minutes...) The lube seems to whispering "Jules, you are nothing... you mean nothing... you will never amount to anything"... and the speculum seems to agree.

And then... the doctor enters. Energetic (A LITTLE TOO ENERGETIC) and happy (A LITTLE TOO HAPPY), just ready to tackle the day, one vagina at a time. She immediately tells you to lie back and to place your feet into the stirrups, the stirrups that you have been eying all along, the evil stirrups of...evilness. And there you are... in all of your glory...

As you are being probed you hear the, "Relax, just relax...breathe," over and over and over and over and over and over. AND ALL YOU CAN FUCKING THINK IS, HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO RELAX?! How, in the name of Jesus H Christ himself, can I fucking relax? 

But, you try, you really do because at the end of the day, what choice do you have but to try?

You try to think of nicer thoughts: s'mores, bunnies, a fresh box of Crayola crayons, the smell of a Christmas tree, Harry Styles's hair, the song "Party in the USA," marathons of America's Next Top Model, slapping Taylor Swift... not being here...getting robbed... death... I mean, you are literally grasping at straws and then--- then the door opens, as a nurse barges in, revealing your vagina for the entire doctor's office to see... (but at least I got a thumbs up from a nice looking fellow just trying to be supportive). Yes, that actually happened. 

But I digress, after a series of curse words, derogatory slurs and cries for your mother, you are finally finished with the probe. You are on top of the world, you are queen of biddyland right now because it will not be for another year that you will subjected to this nightmare of vaginal oppression.

You are out of that doctor's office like a bat out of hell. You practically are running to your car and speeding out of the parking lot--liberated and redeemed, a hero in your own world. 

A hero to the biddies.

XOXO,

Jules