Back By Popular Demand: Got Those Yearly Lube Job Blues, or The Scoot Test
I first wrote this about two years ago on my other blog. People have asked for a reprint on this blog, so here you go:
You know, as much as I enjoy being a woman (and I do; I really do!), there are just some things in a woman's life that, well, blows.
Like the Ol' Yearly Pelvic Exam.
Yup, nothing more fun than braving the unbelievably cold weather yesterday to drive across town, just so I could remove all my clothes in a tiny room that is way too cold for humans. (Why are exam rooms in doctors' offices so damn cold? Is this how they get back at you for having to deal with the less attractive parts of our anatomy? I've never really read the Hippocratic Oath; does it say "First, do no harm......but here's a list of ways to harmlessly torture those idiots that bother you with their body fluids"? Or is It an entire class in Med school?)
So, here we are, the Wonder Hubby and I, crawling into a cold car (at least "The Road" was jamming. Way to go, 107.3!!), hauling our asses over to the west side of town at what was, for me anyway, way too early to be seen in public (I'm completely serious about this. It doesn't matter what time I get up, my body isn't fit for human sight before 10:00 am. I can't move right, I can't think, I'm a giant amoeba in the morning. Good for nothing save drinking coffee and uttering the occasional moan. You can't argue with my body about this, you can't go to bed earlier and make up the difference--it doesn't matter. I'm a spaz until 10. You can set your watch by it!), and speed our way over to the doctor's office for the yearly humiliation. *Insert appropriate joyous noise here*
So, about ten minutes after arrival, Your Intrepid Reporter finds herself in a tiny little room that only has enough room for me, a very small sink, an ancient hearing test cabinet (I'm serious), and a table accoutered with odd-looking attachments--a 20th Century torture device, if you will. I gotta say, being led to an exam room with the small amount of waiting time was a New World's Record for this place! I thought I was finally being recognized as Someone Special until the nurse told me that, due to the extremely cold weather, they'd had a lot of cancellations. Ah well, such is Fame. The nurse takes some information from me ("Are you still taking these meds? When was your last period? Are you now, or have you ever been a Communist?--you know, the regular drill), then hands me a paper tunic and a very worn, very thin bedsheet. "The gown needs to open in the front," she tells me, like I don't already know that, and she leaves.
So, despite the goosebumps that were trying to actually grasp my clothing and keep it on my body, I disrobed, put on the paper gown and attempted to keep myself warm with the bedsheet--an attempt that I knew would be futile unless my husband joined me under the sheet....and then let me join him in his clothing. Not happening, they have a very strict policy against warm patientsat this place. So, I shiver, and ache (cold hurts my joints ssssoooo bad!), and repeat; feeling slightly ridiculous and pondering just why I need to do this to myself--all the while praying that there's no camera bing wielded by Ashton Kutchner anywhere near this place.
At least I didn't get a chance to ponder or pray for long: Within minutes, my little doctor comes bustling in. That's what she does--all the time!--bustle. I think she's the first person I've ever seen that could visually demonstrate that word: Bustle. She's never still. I really like her, she's a pretty good doc and seems to be a pretty good human, too, which is a relatively rare combination if you think about it. We chat for awhile, she looks over my chart (Which is now on a laptop. I like that much better than seeing someone heave that 4-inch thick, overflowing manila folder that they used to i.d. me with). I lay down, she cops a feel of my boobs for a bit (aka the Breast Exam), and then she utters the dreaded words: "Put your feet in the stirrups and scoot your butt to the end of the table."
Now, you male readers out there (and you two know who you are), if this next bit offends you or grosses you out, all I can say is, "Welcome to the Dark Side." You guys think that women have it kind of easy, I know, but the truth is, we suffer. We suffer big time. The things we do to ourselves to look good and feel good just for you would make your hair fall out. All at once. With no warning. We torture ourselves endlessly, just so you guys won't run off with Angelina Jolie at the first opportunity--which we know you will anyway. So will we. But my point is, we do a lot of uncomfortable things just to stick around with you a bit longer. So, if we can deal with living this, you can deal with reading this. Capice?
I think I can say with a fair amount of accuracy that my feet have been in those steel torture devices known as stirrups about 48 times, counting pregnancies and other obstetrical mishaps. Safe to say, I'm no stranger to that order "Scoot your butt to the end of the table." Yet, even with all my, dare I say, expertise with this subject, I always have a moment of sheer terror: The Terror that someday, I will scoot too far, and wind up in a position that will virtually guarantee me a Place of Honor at the next EMS Christmas party. And if your Mental Puppet Theater is having a meltdown just visualizing this image, imagine how I would feel living it. I mean, yeah, I would do quite a few things if I thought they would get me a book deal and a guest spot on Oprah, but I am not willing to go that far! A girl's got to have her standards, after all.
Luckily, I passed the Scoot Test with flying colors, and my terror is abated for another year. And more good news, nothing out of the ordinary occurred during the test--no surprises for the doctor or anything. (WARNING! EXTREMELY Awful Thought About To Be Posted: Does any other woman out there have the urge to utilize a bunch of those snakes from those gag peanut butter jars in this situation, or is it just me?) My doctor is very efficient and very quick at these exams, a talent I greatly appreciate. So, feeling only slightly violated, I gratefully put my clothes back on and get out of there as fast as my feet can move my chubby little self. Out to the waiting room, grab the Wonder Hubby, and get home as fast as possible--it's after 10 am by now, so I can move a lot faster.
And why, may you male readers (if I haven't lost you yet) ask, if I hate this ordeal so much, do I endure it? Because, terrified as I am of the Scoot test, I'm even more scared of Cancer. The Cancer that took away a good friend of mine, Philipa de Tarifa. She was scared of the Scoot test, too. Too scared to get it done, in fact. And now, she's gone and I still cry about that. So I scoot. And I hope and pray that each and every one of my female friends brave the Scoot Test, too, because I don't want to lose a single one of them. Not ever.
So, Ladies, have you scooted yet this year? If not, please get your appointments soon.
Then we can all get together and commiserate over the Wringer test that I have to take next month.