After procrastinating myself into a corner, I’m locked in the downstairs bathroom psyching myself into combat mode. It’s Gyno-Day, my 11:20 appointment with my OBGYN beckons, and I’ve waited until the last minute to do my pre-appointment prep. And I’m panicking. Frankly, detailing my SUV would be easier, even if there’s a summer’s worth of French fries encrusted in the carpet and a horde of perpetual salt dunes hug every nook and cranny of my console.
But I digress. This is about my nooks and crannies and their deplorable current state.
Light a candle for me, people. It’s going to be bumpy ride.
Seriously, though, ladies, am I the only one who launches into full scale remodel mode, preening, plucking, and prepping like a contestant in the fair queen pageant for Gyno-Day?
Am I?
My current plan is to tackle the manageable things first – teeth brushed, make up on, hair washed – the stuff on my head first, thank you very much – blow dryer cranked to high, armpits shaved and possibly hit with the dryer too, then coat my pits with a thick lacquer of deodorant that will hopefully outlast the hour I’ll spend in the waiting room trying to stay “fresh.”
Once Plan A is executed, I’ll launch into the real battle – defollicle’ing myself from the waist down – which would be easier if science would get behind us gals for a change. I mean, c’mon, if we can genetically modify corn to withstand drought, why can’t we borrow a few genes from hairless cats so I can save some time not to mention weed-eater string? Is it too much to ask?
And it’s not even a matter of defollicle’ing the down under either, is it, ladies? If only, right? No, after a fun-filled hour of trimming the hedges, I rubbed my thighs with coco butter in hopes they’ll appear fragrantly tight and smooth, lulling myself with this temporary fantasy, while fully aware the main attraction resembles the moldy-ass cave where Dumbledore and Harry Potter did battle with a horde of Voldemort’s enviously skinny Inferi.
And am I done? No! Of course, not silly. Because now I have to get dressed which means I sprinkle my undies with perfume and powder – ironically willing to risk cervical cancer for a day so my gyno doesn’t think I’m disgusting – and I gave my girl parts a quick once over with the extended reach Swifter Duster too, just to be safe, because I’m not as flexible as I use to be and I’ve already said it, people,…nooks AND crannies.
It paints a picture, doesn’t it?
Meanwhile, I’m constantly asking myself why bother? My baby-making days are behind me, I don’t have to worry about STDs as my lady parts aren’t active on the dating scene, and menopause is rapidly morphing my middle into something resembling a thumb. Although, on second thought, my thumb still sports a six-pack so my apologies to my stubbly fifth digit.
Plus, it all leads me to wonder, is there anything guys prep for as much as Gyno Day? Besides the Superbowl? Do they even care when it’s time for a relative stranger to whisper into their ears, “Turn your head and cough?”
I doubt it. They’re probably completely unfazed. I imagine many a poor doctor has uttered that hallowed phrase, reached down into a patient’s nether regions for a quick squeeze only to dislodge a sprinkling of last night’s nachos and a lug nut from between the boys.
Ironic, isn’t it?
I tell myself it doesn’t matter. I imagine every gyno has seen worse. And I’ll troll the waiting room, seizing up the competition, hoping and praying I’m not the day’s horror story. Today, hopefully, I’ll be unmemorable.
Just as long as I don’t fart.
Robin Winzenread 