Who doesn't treasure that yearly trip to the gynecologist? I mean, what's not to love about a 55-year-old man face first in your cookie, making small talk with you and the nurse? I always enjoy having The Beav cranked open by the little plastic jaws of life while trying to relax and act like it's no big deal my Lady Garden is on display.
One year while my feet were propped up in the stirrups and the doc was conducting business with my cha cha, he said, "Have you been painting?" I damn near shit myself on the exam table, wondering what in holy HELL was on the little lady?! The nurse realized the look of horror on my face and she interjected with a giggle, "You have paint on your leg." It was all I could do to not shout DO NOT EVER DO THAT AGAIN!! to the good doctor. I can laugh at it now, but nothing is funny when the virtue of my snooch is at stake.
I don't know why I still hate that visit. For Pete's sake, the man watched my bits and pieces give birth to Brandon, he cut into them in order to fit that little man through me, and he sewed up the carnage when all was said and done. Every year for the last six years he's had intimate encounters with my particular breed of kitty, so it's not like what he sees is a huge surprise.
I suppose I should at least enjoy the part where my ta tas are massaged...er...examined, but what's the fun in that if the cranky nurse is hovering? Where's the FUN?? Maybe these yearly visits to the punani doc wouldn't be so bad if there was loud, cantankerous music and a stripper pole involved. I wouldn't mind if the doc showed up in a bowtie and assless chaps.
Brings on a whole new meaning to the term Healthcare Reform. I vote YES!!