A College Student’s Guide to the Vagina Doctor
The day has come. Once a year, 20 minutes of your life. It’s just you, a metal clamp, and the person you confess all your deepest, darkest, secrets to. This isn’t a religious consultation, so said person isn’t required to abstain from judgement.
The problem is, this isn’t as simple is ripping off a Band-Aid. This specific appointment with accountability is prefaced with a nice, long, date with an estrogen-filled waiting room. Thank God for smart phones, right?
You’re one hour in and you’ve seen about 30 pregnant women. If you’re anything like me, you’re trying to ignore the fact that you’ve seen every one of these women both enter and exit the building. “They’re going to a different doctor. Just a few more minutes”, you keep telling yourself. You’re imagining having yourself a spa day. Just you, a sexy masseur, and some steamy hot rocks. You begin to wonder why a visit to the gynecologist doesn’t include a “free spa day” coupon.
Next comes the memories, which leads to guilt. You begin to think about the one night stands and the “reunions” with your ex-boyfriend. But hey, “YOLO”, right?
It’s official, you’re a hypochondriac. You’ve self-diagnosed yourself based on the knowledge you acquired from your high school diploma and 6 college classes you actually showed up to last semester. So at this point, who cares if you ACTUALLY see your doctor or not?
Just when you’re about to ditch, you realize that a gynecology virgin has just entered the room. No, I’m not talking about a young girl going to the vagina doctor for the first time. I’m talking about a man accompanying his baby mama.
Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, can spook a guy more than a trip to the gynecologist. No haunted house, no horror movie, no worst nightmare can make a man feel like his testosterone is physically leaving his body like the vagina doctor can. I swear, it’s like men think our ovaries are going to simultaneously combust in the waiting room and turn us into baby-making zombies.
Finally, you hear your name called. You smile and nod your head as the nurse walks you through the drill you’ve performed a thousand times before. You take off your clothes, put on the gown, and begin the waiting process version 2.0.
Forty-five minutes pass by and you finally get acknowledged. God forbid us millennials have to wait for some attention, right? Your doctor acts like you’re the only patient he/she has had in 10 years. You go along with it because you know that Doc is about to show you what the stars really look like.
Now don’t lie, talking about yourself is one of your favorite things to do… especially while receiving a breast exam. Both you and your doctor are making a conscious effort to find conversation. Your doctor is a pro at this point, so while you find yourself knowing nothing about his/her personal life, you end up answering 20 questions by glamorizing the few sober, quality decisions you’ve made over the last year. Who knew narrowing down the boast-able aspects of your life could be so hard? It’s like a family reunion nightmare.
Once the battle of unavoidable eye contact ceases, the true confessional begins. Don’t let anybody tell you that the vagina doctor is easy, and don’t forget to fasten your condom on the way home.
