Every December I have to do my annual exam. This means that I have to go to the gyno, get naked and then try to make chit chat while she shoves what’s basically a duck’s bill into my hoo-hah to get a good look at my girl junk. I like my doctor because she has a great bedside manner. And small hands. And she doesn’t wear rings. I went to a gyno once and saw she was rockin’ some huge ass Home Shopping Network rings and I worried the razor sharp gems would slice through her gloves and then get stuck inside me. She was nice enough with a charming voice until she said something that has haunted me for years: “Okay, now you gonna feel the lube because I need to check your rectum.”
She didn’t even buy me dinner first.
So today at my appointment I asked the question I ask every year: “Can you just take all my junk out since I’m not using any of it?”
Seriously. My uterus is like one of those lop-sided wicker baskets that sit on the floor next to the couch. There’s a lot of dust fuzzing up that basket. There are People magazines from 1983 in it along with an ugly orange crocheted project that was supposed to be a baby sweater but now looks like a sweater for a demented goat. This basket serves no real purpose. It holds shit you don’t want to think about even though you know it’s always there.
My doctor laughed at me and said doctors weren’t so quick to do hysterectomies like they use to be.
So here’s the thing. I don’t want children. I’ve never wanted children and I know I’ll never want them. But evidently that doesn’t mean I can get my works yanked out.
She checked my boobs for any booby weirdness, made a few notes in my record and then left me to get dressed. I somehow managed to smack myself in the face with my own boob, started laughing, and then almost fell over trying to put my shoes on.