Turner and Cooch

Last Wednesday, I left work three hours early.

Goodness, how hedonistic! Was I swanning off for a massage and a matinee, or a croque monsieur and crème brulee at the swanky little French café nearby?

No.

No, in fact, I would rather have stayed at work, for I was off to see the crotch doctor.

I was especially nervous because I had never seen Dr. F before. I’d decided to go with a new gynecologist, because my old one was no longer convenient after last summer's move. My only criteria was that she be part of my insurance plan’s PPO, which meant a lower copay, and that she be, well, a she. Not that I’m worried a male doctor would go wild with desire---considering they probably see a dozen a day, I imagine a strange vagina holds about as much appeal as a Big Mac does to a Mc Donald’s fry cook at the end of their shift---but I just feel more comfortable.

And honey, when you’re lying on your back with your feet in stirrups and your bitchbox blowing in the breeze, you HAVE to be comfortable.

So I got to the office and gave my forms and insurance card to the receptionist, and then I sat down. I was impressed by the magazine selection; every issue on the table was recent, and she had good stuff like Jane and Allure. Unfortunately, I’d already read everything of interest during my last Borders run, so I flipped through an issue of Parents (whee) and waited.

Eventually, a nurse came out and led me to the exam room, where she weighed me and took my blood pressure. “I’ll take you to Dr. F’s office now,” she said.

Dr. F was an attractive woman about my age, and she shook my hand warmly. She asked me a ton of questions about my family and medical histories, and then she took me back to the exam room. She waited outside while I changed into the gown, and then she came back in and directed me to lie down on the table and put my feet in the stirrups.

Now, I’ve never been to a gynecologist who didn’t have a picture of some sort on the ceiling, ostensibly to give you something to focus on while they poke and prod at your most intimate areas. My previous gynecologist had a poster of a tropical beach; Dr. F had a picture of Matthew McConaughey.

I shit you not.

This was especially ironic, because it wasn’t all that long ago that I was complaining to G about People choosing Matthew McConaughey as their “Sexiest Man Alive”. He’s not bad-looking, to be sure, and I can see why other people find him attractive, but personally he leaves me as dry as a popcorn fart.

Still, I stared up at him while she examined my breasts, and then she said, “Okay, I’m going to do the pelvic now. I’d like to do a culture, but I can’t use any lubrication because it will alter the results.”

Meeeep?

“I’ll be as gentle as I can,” she assured me.

Yeah, um…you can be as delicate as a prima ballerina toe dancing on eggshells, but there just ain’t no way a speculum sliding into a totally dry orifice is going to feel good. Now, if there had been a picture of, say, Josh Holloway up there, a veritable Nile of nectar would have issued forth from my ladyflower, and there wouldn’t have been a problem.

BUT THERE WAS, GODDAMMIT!

Then Dr. F said, “Now I’m going to slide a finger in your bottom. This won’t be as bad because you’re used to it.”

Um huh wha---? What exactly was she implying? I wracked my brain, trying to remember if I’d had some sort of bizarre Tourette’s while filling out my forms, and written in “Seymour Butts’ Tushy Girl” for my occupation.

She must have felt the waves of umbrage rolling off me like heat off a desert road---she sure couldn’t see my expression from where she was sitting---because she hastily added, “That was badly phrased. I meant it wouldn’t be as big a deal after the other one.”

Okay then.

Fortunately, it was over quickly and I was allowed to get dressed. She pronounced me healthy and instructions to get a bone density scan (since I’m at higher risk for osteoporosis) and a cholesterol test (because, well, I’m 34) by the end of the year.

This did not improve my mood at all.

Funnily enough, “All These Things I’ve Done” by The Killers came on the radio as I was driving home, and when Brandon Flowers sang “I’m so much older than I can take,” I sighed knowingly.

Truer words were never sung.