It’s not like I spend a ton of time at the gynecologist. I’m not currently, nor have I ever been pregnant, so it’s basically just the standard visit for my annual checkup and then I spend the rest of the year in stirrup and paper gown-free bliss. I wasn’t even good about that for the better part of my 20’s. After my very first pap (I REFUSE to even mention the second half of that procedure’s totally gag-inducing name) at age nineteen left me with a UTI from the very bowels of hell, I decided that was an experience I could live without for a few years. Then a few more years passed. By the time I was a responsible thirty-year-old, I decided it was time to get “back in the saddle”. But times had changed. Apparently snagging an appointment with a good gynecologist is harder than booking a blow-dry at the Warren Tricomi salon. Most of the ones I had been referred to by friends were not accepting new patients, so I finally just decided to go through the Facey Women’s Center where I was able to make an appointment with a great nurse practitioner. Which worked out fine for the past couple of years until I got the dreaded phone call that my pap had rendered abnormal results.
The follow-up appointment required evaluation by an actual MD, so I was randomly assigned to a gynecologist in the same building. I had no idea if said doctor was even a man or a woman, which really freaked me out. I’ve always preferred to see a woman “women’s doctor” not only because they are packing and thus familiar with the same “equipment” but also because I have an irrational belief that all male gynecologists look like old Republican dudes and really, who wants Bob Bennett all up in their business? Not I. A coffee date discussion with a childhood girlfriend before the appointment revealed that the doctor I was scheduled to see was indeed a man. Oh noes! Now I was doubly nervous. Finally the date of my appointment rolled around. After waiting for half an hour in the waiting room and an additional twenty (horrifyingly naked save for the paper towel sarong I was desperately trying to cover my ass with) minutes in the exam room, the doctor was in. And holy shit, he was REALLY attractive. Tall, handsome, and rugged. He really did look like Jason Statham but with slightly kinder features. He also happened to be hilarious, charming, and act like the overprotective father I had always sort of secretly wished for.
Upon hearing this part of the story, most of my girlfriends were utterly horrified. “How embarrassing,” they lamented. But was it really so bad? It’s not like I was trying to date the man. He happened to be married, but even if he wasn’t like I’m really going to try to go out with my freaking gyno? I think there are ethical rules that prohibit that sort of thing anyway. So what’s the big deal? It’s not like I’m showing him anything he hasn’t seen a million times and if a man that I’m not sexually involved with has to be close enough to be essentially breathing into my lady parts, isn’t it better that he be attractive? Kind of like having a cute waiter or a hot bartender, right? It adds to the experience? No? OK, guess I’m just a weirdo then. Or maybe two years of Brazilian waxes has just made me a bit less modest. I have to go back in six months for another checkup. I have the option of seeing my old nurse practitioner or my handsome new doctor. I think I’m going to stick with “Dr. Statham” not because I’m a pervert and he’s an Adonis, but rather because he truly did make me feel very comfortable and cared for as a patient. Plus in 3-5 years when I am ready to start having babies, I’ll already be in with a good OB/GYN, no waiting list required.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment