There is a time that comes around once a year that I dread. No, it’s not my birthday. I rather loathe going to the gynecologist. Let’s be honest, there is nothing about that visit that you could remotely consider comfortable or routine.
My doctor is great. She’s a good listener, kind and does her best to make the exam as quick and normal as possible. But it’s awkward, plain and simple.
This year, everything started off in its typical fashion. I filled out a million pieces of paper, handed over my gold card… I mean insurance card; saw about 100 pregnant women, and then got on a scale. Mundane and uneventful was the vibe as I followed the nurse toward the exam room.
She gives me my uber-expensive paper blanket and gives the usual instructions to disrobe from the waist down. Already awesome. I don’t feel vulnerable at all.
So there I am catching breezes in places that breezes should not be finding and I notice that I am listening to actual music. Not Muzak, not some weird elevator music but music with words! I then spot a speaker tucked under one of the cabinets. I am thinking that’s a nice thing. I can bee bop along while I wait. BUT WAIT…
My doctor comes in, we chat it up while I uncomfortably sit half-dressed on an exam table. It’s really almost like having cocktails with your girlfriends, right? (No, it’s nowhere close to that…)
Then just as my feet are finding their way into stirrups the little speaker that could starts churning out Guns N’ Roses’ “Paradise City.”
We both burst out laughing!
Seriously, what are the chances?
After that you just gotta roll with it and, of course, before you leave the exam room, you text your sister to say, I think I have a blog topic 🙂
Sunshine & Sarcasm,
Lowi & G