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No, No to Mr. Gyno

No, No to Mr. Gyno

I was in the pens, pencils and popcorn aisle at Staples, trying to figure out if I should commit to the extra fine point or the fine point.  I was doodling on the practice note pad and I was feeling political so I wrote: Stop the war—show me your panties. I was writing other profound statements when I saw him. He didn’t see me, but I saw him—my gynecologist.  He was at the far end of the aisle but he was making his way over to where I was standing.  Panicked, I quickly covered my face with the money saver 3 pack of Scotch Tape that I pulled out of my shopping cart and rolled myself to the next aisle.  I could feel my face getting hot and red.  I had just seen Doctor Jenkins last week for my annual pap smear—and isn’t it disturbing that it’s called a smear? And even though this man—yup, a man, I know, you’re judging me—is nice and polite—I couldn’t look at him and say hello in front of the bubble wrap. It just felt wrong. I felt dirty. And I couldn’t leave because I had to purchase all the items in my basket in order to send out a press packet that day.

I needed to know where he was at all times so I lingered in the next aisle.  As I craned my neck around the corner to make sure he was still there, I started to get a cramp—in my vagina. Isn’t that weird?  I immediately started doing my Kegel exercises, contracting and then relaxing my vajayjay muscles, but that just made it worse. In order to calm my body down, I turned into a 5 year old trying to hold in my pee as I danced around and then every other step I squeezed my legs together as customers in need of office supplies stared at me and probably thought: Oh she’s getting used to her Depends.

It took Dr. J forever to move himself to the checkout line.  He kept analyzing each pen, holding them up into the light, one by one with his right hand–the same hand he fisted me with five days ago as he said, “Relax, Monica…tell me a joke.” I regret I told him I write comedy. Finally he got his box of pens, paid for them and he left. I was relieved and all vaginal twitching came to an end.  As I watched him walk out the door, I took a moment to thank heaven and earth for keeping me from having to share small talk: Hey, hi, doctor.  Do you want to look at my cervix?  I’ll lift my leg onto the shopping cart. I just wanted to get out of there, go home and take a shower.

You won’t be seeing me in Staples anytime soon.

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  • Debbie Fuqua says:

    Okay – well, that’s just darn funny. BUT! Here I am, sitting down to a lovely evening with a dear friend — Yes, at some snooty sushi bar in Marin. In walks a stunning blond woman, you know that type, with the perfect chignon at the nape of her graceful neck, iceberg-sized diamond on neatly manicured hand, two gorgeous (no doubt GAP KIDS models) children. She is followed by her Docker’s model husband, tall, dark hair, flashing blue eyes. WTF! That’s my gynecologist!! Dr. H! (you can judge me too, but let me tell you, I see the NP, and SHE’s awesome – he’s just the namesake – not that he hasn’t gone a trekkin’ down there. In fact, I was just in there last week and had to see him instead of her… only a little unnerving) I guess my point is, who runs in to their gynecologist in a SUSHI BAR??? I mean, isn’t enough enough already??

  • Bet says:

    I love it Monica!!!! Especially “Stop the war – show me your panties!”

  • tisha says:

    Laughing about vaginal cramping has to be wrong on so many levels. Reading Monica makes me feel like I was in the staples too. I even did a few kegels to try and relieve her tension. GEEZ! My gyno is a woman but no judgement here. Thanks for the laughs.