Therapy Session With The Gyno

My parents forced me to go to the gynecologist today.

Last Month's Phone Conversation

"Natasha, we're going to schedule you an appointment with the Women's Health Center."

"You mean...the gynecologist."

"Yes."

"Guys, I just went this summer. Everything was fine. I don't need to go again."

"Well, it's the new year, and young ladies need to keep up with their bodies."

"You mean with their vaginas."

"Well, yes."

"I keep up with my vagina. I just checked it, in fact. It's still there. Goin' strong."

"Natasha, you need to go."

"I JUST WENT."

"It's better to be safe."

"So 'being safe' means having my vagina looked at by strangers all the time? That doesn't sound very safe to me."

"You had a swelling, Natasha."

"That had nothing to do with my vagina!"

"But you said you got it while you were on your period."

Immediately regretting things I share. You read my blog, which means you already know I have this problem. This "feeling comfortable talking about anything" problem.

"I don't want to go."

Text I Got This Morning

"Your appointment is at 1:15."

"What appointment?"

"With the Women's Health Center."

"IT'S ONE O'CLOCK!"

There's nothing like waking up to sunshine, a hot cup of coffee, and the awareness that your legs will be spread in front of a woman's face in the next fifteen minutes.

So I get there, which didn't go as smoothly as that sentence makes it seem. By saying, "so I get there," what I really mean is, "On a voyage that Mapquest told me would take two minutes, I ended up driving around for fifty minutes. I was lost, which immediately leads to me screaming inside of my vehicle at nothing in particular, and then I end up at Ronald McDonald's house thinking about cancer and the Hamburglar. 

I finally find valet parking, which is "free." EXPECTED TIPS DO NOT MEAN "FREE." I'm so broke. I get stressed out over a dollar.

I find the office, and there are free goodie bags. I am a free-shit-fanatic. I spent my 30 minutes in the waiting room contemplating on whether or not I'd be able to fit the goodie bag in my jacket so no one on my way out would be able to tell that I was carrying a plethora of condoms and pictures of pregnant women. Then I start thinking, "I don't even need those things. Why do I want them so bad?"

Because they're free.

Luckily, my name gets called before I cave in and grab the sex-sack. 

"Give us as much as you can," the nurse immediately says to me as she hands me a cup.

I'm thinking, as much as I can? Of what? Should I belt out singing? Should I throw out my best joke? Riddle? High-five? Then it hits me: she's talking about urine. I blame this lapse of assumption on the fact that I haven't had to pee in a cup in the past 17 years. 

"Uh....I'm just here to ask about a stomach swelling..."
THAT ISN'T EVEN THERE ANYMORE.

"Oh, it's just standard procedure. Take this wet wipe and wipe front to back."
Front to back? Wow! I had no idea! Why has no one told me this before? And to think, for the past 22 years I've been wiping by shoving a ball of toilet paper in my ass and then pulling it out with tweezers and rubbing it on my vagina. Thanks for finally telling me how to wipe!

Then I can't pee. Because like I said, the last time I had to pee on command was when I was 5 years old. I've forgotten how to take directions in regards to my bathroom breaks.

So I manage a drop. Literally - a drop - and I awkwardly bring it out to her.

"It's a drop. Sorry."
I had to tell her this, for the drop was small and I was afraid she wouldn't be able to spot it, especially since the cups are a tinkle-me-yellow color.

I meet with Doc, blah blah blee bloo, and when it comes time for inspection, I start laughing uncontrollably.

"Are you okay?" the nurse asks.

"HAHAHA yeah HAHAHA."
There was no reason to be laughing. Nothing was funny about the situation, and Q-Tips do NOT tickle. The only logical explanation that comes to me is that I tend to laugh when I feel uncomfortable. It's like a defense mechanism. If some man with a gun tried to rob me, I'd probably start giggling. And then get shot. 

I discovered this tendency the time I forcefully swung open the freezer door and smacked my sister, who was standing behind it, right in the face, propelling her back a few feet and landing her on her back on the kitchen floor. I felt guilty and uneasy - and so I started laughing until I was snorting. Then I realized how much better it made me feel about almost breaking her nose with kitchen appliances. This is when it all began.

The appointment ended with no conclusion, since there was no reason for me to be there, and I was told to get changed. I did so and the doctor returned.

"Hi, Natasha...I did notice one thing..."
This is the last thing you want to hear after being poked in your privates.

"It's on the medical history form you filled out...under how many drinks you have per week..."
This is what you get for being honest.

She continues with the following: "Um...hahaha...hahaha..."
She does it, too! I'm not alone!

"Yeah...UHHHHHHHHH..."
This was probably the longest "uh" I've ever muttered in my life. An "uh" can speak a thousand words; an "uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" can speak a million.

"You're going to want to cut back, but considering how much you drink, you're not going to be able to just quit entirely...you're going to have to ween yourself off..."

"Right. Right."
THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH MY VAGINA. Hmmm. Or does it.

"Is there a reason you drink so much...?"
Awesome. Therapy session with the Gyno.

"Nope."
I refuse to let my mind AND my privates get invaded in the same hour.

"Well, if you need any help, we have multiple programs ---"

"No, no, no, nonononononono. I'm fine, really."

"Well don't take any Tylenol."
Okay?

I leave the doctor's office confused. I went there about my stomach, got examined about my veevee, and then interrogated about my alcohol consumption. No conclusion was reached except that I shouldn't take Tylenol. And why didn't I grab a goodie bag?

I should have grabbed a goodie bag.