Down there.

Several weeks ago, I got a phone call saying that I was due for a check-up.

You know. That one. Somehow, I think all us females tend to create this aura of “Agh the stirrups! And the cold ducklips! And the hand that’s not my partner’s fidgeting around up there!” and yet, we get there, it’s a few minutes of discomfort, and then we’re on our merry way. I never tend to look forward to this sort of thing, because really, the only thing I want hanging out down there is my latest person’s hand or other anatomical device that fits quite snugly. I’m not really sure how you CAN look forward to this sort of thing.

That’s one of the downsides of moving. You have to find a new lady doctor who may not be as friendly or understanding as the last one, and worst, you don’t know their style. So far, I’ve had one move locations, one retire, I graduated from college (no more health center visits!), and then I awesomely moved across the country. Five doctors in six years. Not bad, eh? The last time I went to one, I was still with GDB. We were obviously sleeping together, and relying on my fabulous birth control pills. Since then, I hadn’t been checked out, cleared, any of that fun stuff. Methoughts, it was time for a visit.

I found a doctor. She said she accepted my insurance. I got there. She didn’t. Guess who was cranky for the next few hours?

I found another doctor. She said she accepted my insurance. I kept my fingers crossed. I submitted my insurance card in advance and hallelujah, the damn thing cleared! So off I went to get my annual girl exam. Sweet.

The waiting room threw me off a bit. I firmly believe that all waiting rooms, especially for a gynecologist, should offer cushy couches, in purple, light pink, deep reds, colors that would soothe you and remind you of the sensual aspects of your vagina. Cold beige chairs or worse, gunmetal gray chairs that are rigid and immobile just remind me of the steel devices that could be used as a torture device should one choose.

For some reason, I was awfully bouncy today, so I was chipper and cheerful, and I don’t think the receptionist quite knew how to respond. I think they’re used to more of the, “Oh god, let’s get this over with,” and I was more of the, “Oh sure! Hey, yeah okay! What else? Do you need more money? Do you need me to fill any more paperwork out?” I sat in the waiting room, more than happy to read about how Brangelna is FINALLY engaged, and also, they’re expecting twins. (See, every once in a while I can be totally shallow.) I didn’t even hear them call my name, I was so engrossed in my copy of the Star Magazine, even if it was a month old. She led me through the door to a small room in the back, where I sat down in a doctor’s office.

Waiiiiiitttttt. Doesn’t this part come AFTER the part where you go foraging for gold? No. Apparently not. He wanted to talk, to get to know me. Oh yes. It was a he. I thought I was going to a she, but somehow, I ended up with a he. Whatever. A vagina is a vagina is a vagina. So we sit. And we talk.

“Are you sexually active?”

“Yes.”

“Do you use a condom?”

“I do now, but I didn’t with my last boyfriend.”

“You should always use a condom. There are STD’s you know.”

“Erm. Yes. I know. That’s why…I wanted to get that tested too?”

“Oh yes, we will take care of this. But you will have to go somewhere else to have the blood tests done. Oh, and I need you to come back in three or four weeks so I can tell you the results. of your exams. HEPA, you know.”

“Oh…kay?”

Among questions about my last menstrual period, my family’s medical history, and more. Whatever happened to writing all this down on a piece of paper? I felt a little bit like I was a contestant on the “How well do you know your vagina?” show.

Finally! He says, “Okay, follow me.” So I follow. He leads me to a room, where they have stackable drawers that remind me of the stackable drawers I used all throughout college and grad school. This is not…reassuring. But on the bright side, not only is their chair pink, they have a pillow on the chair! And he tells me I don’t have to get fully undressed; just take the bottom half off, and unsnap my bra. I can do this part, I think. Also, I really need to stop bothering with shaving and just grow a pair and get waxed because all those red bumps do nothing for my sex life. So I undress, having made sure to pee (because having to pee during an exam is quite possibly the most uncomfortable thing ever), hop on the chair, and then cover myself up with a paper sheet.

They really should offer their clients luxurious downy white robes, like the kind you get at the Westin. And maybe the Westin Heavenly Bed. I have no problems spreading my legs for that bed.

So anyhow, he comes back in after a few minutes, and does the breast exam. “You should really feel around while in the shower, do this once a month, make sure there are no lumps like this; feel my knuckle-” Uh….what? *feel his knuckle* “-if there’s anything like that, you come back immediately.”

Then he pulls out the stirrups. And they have socks! Not only do they have socks, but they’re NEON GREEN socks! I can handle neon green socks instead of stirrups. So he does his usual business down there. I never really know what the point of putting all that gel on their fingers is, but let’s just say I felt like I had wet panties for the rest of the day, and not the good kind. Why is it that we girls stay damp and moist, whereas boys, when they jack off, their sperm hardens and forms a bit of a crusty thing? GDB once told me it has something to do with exposure to the air, and because of sperm’s nature, it more or less breaks itself down. Alas. My body does not break itself down, so I felt a bit like I was anticipating super good sex, while it was really just the doctor’s gel. Awesome.

He finishes that part, and the entire time, I’ve been reading my Star Magazine, because it’s clearly just that good. So I’m thinking, “Sweet! Put clothes on – did he what?! I – what?!” Surreptitiously, a finger somehow ended up in my anus. I don’t usually put anything in my anus. Clearly, my anus was not remotely prepared for any examination.

My mind fired off question after question. “Have I just been violated? Is this normal? Is this a West Coast thing? Should I be freaked out? WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?”

The doctor sits up. “I used to work with some deaf patients, and they taught us that the sign for pain was -” *twists his hands in opposite directions with maniacal glee* “-Do you know any signs?”

Me: No.
My head: YOUR FINGER WAS JUST IN MY ASSHOLE!

“Okay, well then, you’re all set to get dressed! Do you want a refill for your prescription?”

Me: *nod*

I get clothed, well aware that I will now need to shred this pair of underwear I wore today because of all the gel that’s oozing out of my vagina (and now anus?), accept my prescription, and leave.

Later that day, I ask Doctor Long Island if he knows about this. Is that typical protocol? He responded that some doctors do it to check the area between the vagina and the rectum to make sure there are no masses, but he’s never personally done it during any exams. I’m still not sure about how I feel about this. If I wanted to take a positive tack, I could say perhaps I have an enticing anus, something that’s never been pointed out before, because most of my partners were usually too busy admiring my vagina. Is this a normal thing? At the very least, I’ll be back on the East Coast in four months, and I’m pretty sure they’re a bit more vagina-intensive there. Even without the neon green stirrup socks.