"What are YOU here for," she says.
It's an odd question for the gynecologist's office, you have to admit. It's not like we were at the dentist's. Or the local police station. It'd be like asking someone the same question at the shrink's office. I mean, there's really only one response, right? "Because I'm fucking crazy, you know?" And at the gynecologists, it's not much better. Regardless of how you phrase it, you're going to be talking about YOUR VAGINA. In this case, to a stranger.
"Because I need someone to look in my fucking vagina, you know?"
After processing the initial shock at her inquisition, I think I blurted out something awkward about an annual exam? but while furrowing my brow a bit to demonstrate my displeasure with the whole situation. This must have gone unnoticed, however, because she kept talking. (Next time, I'll go straight to punching the stranger in the cooter, I guess.)
"I'm here for [something related to the contents of her uterus, people, and redacted for your mental health and mine]," she says.
Seriously? I mean, I'm thoroughly versed in awkward situations, but what the fuck am I supposed to say here? I've never had someone randomly strike up a conversation about the workings and glitches of their reproductive system, so this was breaking new ground even for someone as socially inept as myself. WELL. It was a good thing she was a pro, because she kept the words a-flowin' just fine enough on her own, letmetellyou.
"So...have you ever had [aforementioned, redacted procedure] done?"
::fidgeting nervously with ring::
"Uhh, well, I'm not exactly sure what you're describing...so...?"
Big mistake, kids. EPIC FUCKING MISTAKE. This stranger, you see, was more than happy to explain everything to me. E. VER. Y. THING.
"Well it's [more about the contents of her uterus that I will not share, because, my god, I wouldn't dare put you through such a thing]..."
"Oh...okay [voice crack]. Right."
"So you've never had that then?"
Bitch was relentless! It was at this point that I began to wonder if I had worn my BIZZARRE-UTERINE-ISSUES t-shirt out in public again, but after a quick glance, I realized this was not the case. Feeling trapped, I looked quickly at another woman sitting in the same area, pleading non-verbally for rescue (it was a series of blinks and finger flicking), but she seemed to have been rendered mute by what she saw unfolding before her. Instead, I dug through my purse and grabbed my phone, throwing my dire predicament into the hands of Twitter:
It was at this point, by some glorious twist of fate (which I swear had nothing to do with me typing this tweet within her frame of vision), that the topic inexplicably turned into the Texas heat. And broken air conditioners. And ain't-life-a-son-of-a-bitch and HAHAHAHAHA!
I breathed an audible sigh of relief. If I could have patted my uterus on the head in a reassuring manner, I would've done exactly that. We're gonna be okay, pal. It's over...it's all over.
A few moments later, I was called in to the exam room where I was allowed to play with Rainbow Brite dolls, watch JEM! cartoons, eat Laffy Taffy by the handful, and pet the office unicorns while the doctor conducted a puppet show for my enjoyment. And I didn't even have a copay!
When I emerged, clutching a bunch of ovary-shaped balloons and a plush fallopian tube, I pulled up Twitter to let the world know that both myself and my uterus were now doing fine. But what I found instead is that the most amazing Twitter threads in the history of THREAD ITSELF had been born of my previous plea:
And then someone started talking about blue uteri with claws and shit just got weird.
But anyway, maybe keep these gems in mind next time you're at the gyno's office.
The more you know! ::star!::