But I'm sitting here trying to think of something that is funny, and I can think about is what happened yesterday.
I am intrigued, on a regular basis, at things we do as women, to "maintain". Regular visits, shaving, tweezing, straightening, bleaching, frosting, texturizing, shadowing, layering, coordinating, and accessorizing – all in an effort to impress somebody else, or the collective somebody's. And sometimes, we do it because it's just the thing we're supposed to do.
(Warning – this may be TMI – you've been advised.)
Yesterday was a Girlie Doctor Visit day. I would honestly rather be SHOT AT than endure that visit even though it only takes like 3 minutes. Yes, I realize that most of it is preventative, but still. BLECH. I put it off as long as I can.
I feel like a woman's body (especially her intimate parts) is a roadmap of sorts. Some girls are the Indy 500 track. A few are the Autobahn. Some of us are drying up like a pathway through the Sahara. Some of us are surrounded by terrible landscaping. And some of us need to be repaved.
And maybe I'm a weirdo, but I don't like everybody seeing my roadmap, you know?
Plus, I always get tickled when I have to visit this Dr. I mean, where else (besides a family holiday gathering) can all your failures in life be condensed into one room? Oh you're single? (As you're being started at the by the young guy across the room.) Oh you're childless? (As the very pregnant lady across the aisle eyes you like a holiday turkey.) (In her defense, sometimes it's hard to tell if her expression is pity or envy. Totally depends on the size of the ankles and her levels of morning sickness.) Oh, you're really childless? (Silently says the pregnant mother while her three kids under 4 run around the waiting room like banshees.) THEN… when you walk into the actual room, the nurse will ask you a litany of questions that are a balance between "Are you a whore ?" or "I've never met a 30-year old virgin ".
And to think… most of us do this under the guise of preventative care. I don't want any type of cancer and so I know it's good, and should be necessary. But I can't help but laugh hysterically at the set up of it all.
That is until the nice doctor accidentally pokes my cervix so hard that I fly off the table. Dear Really Nice Dr that I will visit again, my cervix should not be mistaken for a dart board at a pool hall. Thanks.
Good times I tell ya'… good times.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
I feel like I need to be light-hearted. I went back and read the last few posts, and it appears that I have lost my funny bone! (This is totally not the case. I make ME laugh daily, and either my coworkers are just kind, or they're laughing along with me too.)