DISCLAIMER: I will attempt to navigate this post as carefully as possible without sharing way too much information. However, if even the slightest mention of “girl parts” and menstrual cycles freaks you out, then I suggest moving along to the next blog on your reading list for today and coming back to this one at a later date.
I don’t know what happened, why, or how; but my girl parts have gone haywire.
I woke up one cold January morning, mere days after ringing in the new year, and noticed I was flying the red flag.
And thought to myself, “Hmmm, that’s odd. I’m at least ten days early.”
What was even odder, was the fact that my uterus decided to fly the red flag every day since then. Perhaps, my body is undergoing some sort of new year ritual that I am unaware of, but have been volun-told to participate in.
At any rate, the rest of January goes by. Then February. Finally, in March, after constant harassment from my partner, I called the doctor and made an appointment. The earliest available was two weeks out.
“Great,” I’m thinking. So, now I’ve got fourteen whole days to countdown to the ultimate invasion of cold, plastic duck-lips into my already obviously pissed off vag. I know every woman hates pap smears and pelvic exams, however, I am pretty sure that no woman hates them more than (3)genderqueers, (2)butches, and (1)trans men and women — in that order of increasing severity of hatred.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love my vag — I do. But, I don’t love some random human being digging and scraping around in there like a got-damned picker looking for lost treasure.
So, as you can imagine, on the day of my appointment (today), I am cranky, defensive, and terrified.
The matter is further complicated by the fact that my partner had a family emergency and could not be there with me today. Awesome.
I find my way to the doctor’s office, fill out their dictionary-thick stack of new patient paperwork, am called back to my patient room, and I wait. The clock is ticking like a blacksmith’s hammer in my ear. The nurse walks in, asks some questions, sets me up with some pads and a little clothe sheet, and now I am expecting Brumhilde, the vag-killer to walk through the door.
Instead, when the door opens, I am greeted by the cutest, youngest doctor I’ve ever seen in real life (non of the staffs of ER or Grey’s Anatomy count).
Instantly, my mind travels away from the fact that my uterus is in an utter rebellion, and the first thing that comes to mind is that I haven’t trimmed my toenails recently, I never did shave my legs last night, and I am wearing Superman underwear …
I don’t think I’ve ever had a more awkward pelvic exam … in my 17 years of pelvic exams … this has GOT to be THE MOST embarrassing one.
The entire time, I am thinking:
of course my doctor’s hot.
Because nothing says, “hello” like an angry vag, hairy legs, slightly overgrown toenails, and Superman underwear.