Women Have To Do Some Awkward Sh*t At The Gynecologist
Being a woman is often strange in ways that men just won’t ever understand. Our bodies don’t always feel like they are connected to us; rather they are these outside entities that are ogled at by strangers, prodded by doctors, and then stretched and smushed and sucked on by our children.
If we do decide to try to grow children with our bodies, we pretty much need to let go of any modesty about our bodies that we ever had or else die of embarrassment in the stirrups. During pregnancy, our urine is tested, our insides are poked, our blood is drawn, and the blood pressure cuff becomes like an extension of our overly inspected body.
They should give out warning labels with pregnancy tests saying, enjoy this day because it might be one of the last times you’ll pee in peace.
Inhabiting a woman’s body is a wondrous, magical thing that involves a lot of upkeep. Our bodies decide to erupt monthly like a bleeding Mount Vesuvius at around age 12 or so. And we get to start visiting the gynecologist shortly thereafter to make sure the whole system is running smoothly.
Women quickly come to accept the fact that we will meet people and talk pleasantly about the new local coffee place with an arm halfway inside our bodies.
We will discuss our sexual history and behaviors with an acquaintance like we are simply at a very strange dinner party where we are the only ones not wearing pants.
We will have the things that come out of our bodies examined and processed and analyzed.
We will worry about the sorry state of our underwear.
We will be complimented on the agreeability of our cervix and feel strangely proud.
We will chat nonchalantly about the weather while having our exposed breasts massaged for lumps and bumps.
We will exclaim in surprise about the newest plot twist in Game of Thrones while having our most private areas viewed by a roomful of people we’ve never seen before.
We will even be asked if we want a mirror to see what our downstairs looks like.
There might be some pooping involved.
These things are seen as normal for women. More people than I can count have seen parts of me that I will never see. That’s why I can go into a waxing place and pull my knees up to my chest and say, “Have at it stranger!” and not feel one ounce of shame. The gynecologist’s office prepared me for that.
It also prepared me to actually go to the waxing place so that I don’t give anyone a fright. At this point, after having two children, I feel like I could pretty much walk down the street buck-ass naked and not feel that uncomfortable. Like, hey there everyone, entire crowds of people have seen what I’ve got, I don’t actually care if you see it too. And yes, these are boobs, not tube socks. There is a reason why old women walk around naked in the gym locker room; they simply lost all of their fucks to give a long time ago.
Meanwhile, my husband goes through life being traumatized by having his annual flu shot. I can’t imagine the amount of therapy he would need if he ever had to spread ’em for a roomful of people, or get that hairy gooch waxed.
