Thoughts We've All Had At The Gynecologist's Office

by Christine Burke
Pamela Moore / iStock

Recently, I was due for my annual Pap smear, and after a few months of ignoring this inevitability, I made my appointment. On the scheduled day, I meticulously prepared and lady-scaped more than I ever did when I was single and dating, though I was fairly certain my efforts would go unnoticed by a doctor who stares at hoo-has all day long.

But considering that I’d die a thousand deaths if the doctor saw the Sasquatch sitch I’m usually rocking down there, preparations needed to be made. I arrived feeling confident that my lady garden was in tip-top shape and acutely aware that I make my husband at least buy me a cocktail or two before he gets to inspect south of the border. I smiled at the receptionist and tried to pretend I was watching The View, instead of panicking that I’d forgotten to shave my legs.

As I followed the nurse into the exam room, my mind was awash with so many thoughts. From the humiliation of stepping on the scale to questions about how much alcohol I consume in a week, the tone of the visit was set pretty quickly. Throw in being naked and covered only with a see-through tablecloth from the Dollar Store and tools that no man would submit to having near his junk, my visits to my gynecologist are always downright humiliating.

And I can’t be the only one who has the following thoughts in my head during the process:

They really should serve mimosas in this joint.

Oops. I just peed before I left. I can’t give a urine sample. Sorry about that.

That is not my weight. She needs to subtract 10 pounds! I’m wearing boots! And jeans! And my scarf is wool! Better yet, make it 15, Nurse-You-Made-Me-Fat.

How much alcohol in a week? Does she mean glasses or bottles?

Oh, I saw that eyebrow raise, Nurse-You-Made-Me-Fat. We both know I’m lying about the wine. Don’t be a hater.

Recreational drugs? God, I wish.

They should have a countdown clock in here so I know exactly how much time I have until the doctor catches me completely nekkid.

Shit. I forgot to shave my legs.

Why don’t they have pictures of Chris Hemsworth and Justin Timberlake on the walls? These headless cross-sections of pregnant women remind me that my abs are gone forever.


Great, now the pad on the exam table is wet. Awkward.

Dammit, it’s cold in here. My nipples could cut glass.

Oh, look, the doctor is here. And, oh, he’s shaking my hand. Exactly how many vaginas has he touched today?

Yep. That’s my bra and granny panties hanging out there on the floor. Awesome.

Sexually active? Try actively trying to get out of having sex, Doc.

At least he’s not going to shame me for not flossing regularly.

What form of birth control am I using? Um…my four kids.

Suuuuuureeeee. I do breast self-exams every day, Doctor. About as frequently as I floss, there, Bucko.

Do I have any questions? Um…none that I wouldn’t rather ask my best friend instead. I’ll just ask her about my hoo-ha being as dry as the Sahara, but thanks just the same.

Jesus, my boobs are enormous. And saggy. OMG, why am I just now noticing that there’s hair growing around my nipples?!

Why isn’t the nurse talking? Can’t she save me from my hell? Say something — anything — Nurse-You-Made-Me-Fat!

I should have kept my socks on.

No, I cannot scoot down further. Any closer and you’ll need some milk with my cookie, Doc.

We’ve put a man on the moon and nominated a woman for president, and they still can’t warm the goddamn lube gel. Seriously?

Is now a good time to tell you that I could give you that urine sample?

Oh, how nice. He’s telling me about his family trip to Disney while his fingers are spelunking in my twat.

I really need a pedicure.

Don’t fart, don’t fart, don’t fart, don’t fart…

A little pressure? Jesus, why don’t you just shove a watermelon up there while you are at it.

OMG, if he says ‘Houston, we have a problem,’ I’m totally going to kick him in the head.

Why aren’t there pictures of Chris Hemsworth and Justin Timberlake on the ceiling?

Don’t sneeze, don’t sneeze, don’t sneeze…

Easy there, muchacho. That long ass Q-tip doesn’t need to come out of my mouth.

Seriously, I have to pee.

Oh, everything looks fine? Well, that’s a relief. I mean, I’m pretty proud of my cervix, so it’s nice to hear she’s working like a champ.

Yes, I look forward to seeing you next year too. No, the pleasure of having my innards inspected by a man who is not my husband was all mine. Really.

Shit. Why can’t I find my underwear? It was right there.

Do I throw the tablecloth away? Leave it on the too-short bed?


Well, so much for that urine sample.

As I said, going to the gynecologist is humiliating, but it would be so much worse if the doctor could read my mind.

But then again, even if he could, at least my thoughts would be clearer than when I’m at the dentist.