GYN joy. Not.

I had never been a fan of going to the GYN, but after having 2 children, I can’t think of anything worse than a stranger staring at my hoo-ha and, you know, studying it.

Nothing to see here. Carry on. Hey, what’s that? Is that a model of an IUD in a plastic uterus? Tell me more about that! Is that to scale?

You’d think that after letting everyone else and his mother watch you deliver two Sasquatches from your nether regions (mine were a tad big), having one benevolent GYN nurse practitioner give you the pelvic drill would be nothing.

Wrong.

I don’t like it. Not one bit. There are some things that should be left sacred and undisturbed. Like my post-partum war field of a body.

But, there I was, the other day, wrapped in my robe opening-to-the-front, waiting for Ms. Pappy to come back into the room for the exam.

I flipped impatiently through an old copy of Harper’s Bazaar I had found in the examining room, trying to take my mind off the folded up stirrups next to me, covered with jolly paisley quilted cozies. Joy!

Finally, in walked Ms. Pappy with a too-cheery smile and asked me to assume the position.

UGH.  Not a fan of the position that pits my girl parts on eye-level with a stranger’s face.

She’s seen 1,000 girl parts before, I tried to assure myself. You won’t scare her.

She’s silent and I lie there uncomfortably, mentally squirming.

“So, how are those hemorrhoids?”

Um, hello? Can I die now?

(What am I supposed to say? Just peachy? Oh, Fred acts up now and then, but Ethel don’t give me no trouble?)

Uh, fine, I muster.

Thanks. Thanks for saying something. Thanks for the reminder that my pregnancies have given me more presents than the miracles of Elise and Luke. Couldn’t you just have pretended not to notice?

Maybe I need to find a new provider. One that understands that some things are better left unsaid.