I find it funny that several uncomfortable things for women
have been invented by men. High heels,
bras, the pap-smear test. Don’t get me wrong, I like a nice pair of heels, and
for my boobs to not hang to my belly button, but sometimes I wish I could go without. This feeling is strongest when the date for
my annual pap sneaks up on me.
This, year it happened to be yesterday.
The experience is never one that I can say that I enjoy, but
this time it was extra interesting to say the least.
First of all, I had to wait an hour and a half before they
called my name and lured me back into an exam room. Waiting is the worst. Not only do you have to
sit with nothing to focus on but sticky magazines covered in who knows what, or
a tv playing a promotional video (this time about gender identity), but you
have to sit knowing that everyone there is thinking about vaginas. I tried to
focus my thoughts on something productive, homework, what to make for dinner,
what workout I’m going to do today, but my mind kept flipping back to those
stainless steel salad tongs that were about to be shoved between my legs—and
the pinch that would inevitably follow.
After about 30 minutes of waiting, a young woman (she looked
about 20)walked in with her two young boys. This was fine by me. One of them
actually had a cute giggle. Everything was going to be fine… that is until I
remembered that I was waiting to pay a doctor to violate me and that in this
instance nothing could really work out in my favor.
Apparently the woman checked all her parenting skills at the
door. The two boys ran wild through the waiting room—screaming, pounding on the
door that leads to the exam rooms, and swinging car keys. They boys hit two
people in the waiting room with the keys, and screamed at the nurses working
behind the counter. All the while, the mom sat two rows behind me and yelled
“sit down and watch t.v.” My head was throbbing, and my patience was dwindling.
Still, I sat patiently with my legs crossed and tried to
direct my attention to the buckle on my boot. This was fine, for about five
minutes. Before I even had time to process what is happening, there was a
nudge against my boot and a little voice growled “move!” One of the boys was
under my chair, and wanted me to move my feet so that he could crawl the rest
of the way through. Unacceptable. I leaned forward, looked at him with lips
pursed, and said “no.” Another punch to
my boot, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I flung my heel back and gave the boy
a little bop on the head with it. He cried. Mom yelled.
Thankfully, the nurse saved me by calling my name, but the
hard part was yet to come.
I changed into the weird elastic gown—which is now like an
oversized skirt in which you settle the elastic over your boobs—and agreed to
let a male student join in for the exam. In the name of education, why not.
The man was young, blonde, and had a sheepish smile. Something
about the way he struggled to make eye-contact made me smile. He was just as
nervous about the salad tongs as I was. He started with the breast exam,
working his fingers in the appropriate circular motion, and concentrating. I
watched as he eyes widened as he examined a mole. This was fine, the mole does
need looked at. He inquired about said mole, and when I agreed to get it looked
at, I thought it was over. I was wrong. He
kept his eyes wide, and leaned down so
that his face was practically in my chest, and poked at the mole. Awkward. At this point I was almost begging for the
salad tongs, almost. He was learning, I couldn’t be mad, but I could laugh, and
I did. His face turned pink and avoided
eye contact completely.
And it gets better.
Let the salad tongs, pinching, poking, swabbing, and prodding
commence.
Ok, done. It wasn’t too bad. Awkward as usual, but not too
bad.
I had survived. I would soon be able to drag my legs out of
the stir-ups, put on my underwear, and get the heck out of there. Before I
could do that, he rolled his chair back stood slowly, reached back, and gave my
legs a simultaneous slap.
I was free to close
my legs and go.
3 hours later I left with a so-far clean bill of health, a
packet of pills, a new respect for the way my mother parented me, and pat on the…legs?
Until next year…
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