Flossing For The Dentist? I’m Waxing For The OB-GYN
It’s the night before the big day, and I’m tossing and turning with anxiety and anticipation. Will she laugh at my jokes? Will she notice my socks? Eventually I fall into a fitful sleep and next thing I know, I’m jolting awake to the blaring alarm sounds of Pop That Pussy by 2 Live Crew. It’s Coochmas morning. My annual appointment at the gynecologist. And I need to put my best lips forward.
I spend several hours exfoliating and shaving every patch of skin and crevice on my body. Sure, watching a baby’s head forage its way out is just another day at the office for my doc. And yet…I still cannot possibly fathom showing up with a single stray pube in my lady garden. Vaginas are like a self-cleaning oven? Not today, folks. Today I spend several minutes lathering my hoo-ha with the feminine wash that I keep (label turned inward) in my shower for just this occasion. My flower will smell like a literal flower, or I won’t show up at all.
As I lotion, I pick out the underwear that I will artfully lay on the chair next to the examination table. Although I’ve never once caught my gyno sneaking a peek at my underoos, I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that I casually showcased my laciest thong, making her wonder if I’m actually an off-duty Victoria’s Secret Angel. Meanwhile, my period-stained briefs with “Less Talk, More Makeout” in bubble letters across the butt will remain hidden in the bowels of my panty drawer. My ex-boyfriend might’ve seen those bad boys sunny side up more times than I can count but I’ll die before my doctor lays eyes on them and also tells me she doesn’t see a future for us.
Right before I leave comes the biggest decision of all: what socks to wear. As the only article of clothing I will not be forced to strip off, the sock choice is key in showing my spunky personality with my lady doc. My lingerie on display may indicate that I’m a model but my socks will show that I can banter like a late night talk show host. I’m hoping to go the distance here, so I’ll be damned if I let her get to third base via speculum without knowing I’m both stylish and funny. I dig through the drawer of punny socks that I’ve been curating for this day. I pluck the pair with killer whales playing various instruments: Killer Beats. Only the cream of the crop make it into the stirrups. Shamu ripping on an electric guitar is a visual everyone needs in their life and if she notices, sparks will fly. Bonus points if she references Free Willy. I have high hopes, as just last year she showcased pure glee at my pair adorned with a walrus eating a donut. My first indication that our connection ran deeper than a yearly exam. It helped push the traumatic memory away of my previous doctor the year before not even noticing my socks featuring a T-Rex taking a selfie. Obviously that was the last time I paid her a visit. That relationship wasn’t built to last, but sometimes it just takes a little time and several years of disappointing pap smears to find “the one.”
I’m giddy with excitement to get to my date, I mean, “appointment.” I get there 30 minutes early just in case she can’t wait to see me and I’ve preemptively blocked out three hours in my Google calendar because it HAS been a whole year and we have a lot to catch up on. I struggle to make it through the nurse’s preamble of questions, the foreplay, so to speak, before it’s time for engaging conversation with a side of whipping my bits out for the doc. It’s showtime and these curtains are ready to open much like my paper robe, flowing in the breeze for easy access.
Finally, my suitress walks in and we exchange pleasantries. I’m eager to tell her what I’ve been up to all year in vivid detail, but just as I’m diving into my family drama over the holidays, she cuts me off and asks if we can get right down to business because she has a lot of patients to see today. A little off-putting, but I soldier through, assured that we’ll get our groove back. She tells me to scooch back and I admit that this muffin is in tip-top shape and I’m really just here to re-up for another year of birth control. I giggle and muster up my sexiest wink. And that’s when it all starts to slip through my fingers. She looks at my chart. “You know,” she whispers conspiratorially, “we’re actually not required to do a pap smear each year unless you have specific concerns. So we’re all set here.” No. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. Hours of prep. I am a hairless cat that smells like a petunia and all for WHAT. She turns to leave and I shoot up from the table, knocking the stirrups askew, my paper gown stuck in all the wrong places, “WAIT,” I scream uncomfortably close to her face. “Can I at least show you my socks?”
