One of my least favorite things about being a woman is having to go to the gynecologist for an annual pap smear. For those of you wondering what the hell a pap smear is, it's a screening test used in gynecology to detect pre-malignant and malignant (cancerous) processes in the ectodermic (according to Wikipedia).
What exactly does this entail? Basically, the doctor sticks this thing called a speculum inside your hoo-haa. The nurse was not amused when, in response to a bunch of her awkward, uncomfortable questions during the pre-examination, I used the speculum as a puppet to give all my answers.
From there, the doctor uses an endocervial brush on the outer cervix to take a sample, which is then placed on a glass slide to check for abnormalities. It's okay, men, despite having received several over the course of my life, I still had no idea what exactly the doctor was doing down there either until I looked it up. You know how awkward it is when you go to the dentist and he asks you a bunch of questions while he has his hands in your mouth? Yeah, well imagine that but instead of having his hands in your mouth, he has them up your crotch.
What type of conversation do you have while you're essentially being fingered by a 60-year-old man? I really like what you've done with the place, sir. My visit started out with a 30-minute wait in the dreaded waiting room. The waiting room at a gynecologist's office is full of two types of people: pregnant women (usually with their screaming kids running around the room—I made mental note to ask the doctor to renew my prescription for birth control), and elderly women. The latter would explain all the pamphlets on menopause littered throughout the office, a horrifying glimpse into your vaginal future; a very saggy, very dry future.
After being thoroughly subjected to the horror of what my life will one day become, I was ushered into a smaller, colder room. The nurse gave me two pieces of what are essentially giant paper towels and told me to undress completely and wrap the paper towels around myself. I always have an internal debate before I go to the gynecologist on whether or not I need to do a little landscaping down below. On the one hand, this guy has probably seen it all in his 30 plus years of practice. On the other hand, I don't want to gross him out too much with the tropical forest that takes over the lower portion of my body over the bitter winter months. In the end though, I decided that if I didn't shave for the last guy I had sex with, I certainly wasn't going to shave for the doctor.
Another 15 minutes passed before the doctor actually came in. He immediately told me to put my legs up in the stirrups.
So there I was, legs open wide enough for a boat show to pass through, getting railroaded by a speculum only slightly warmer than an icicle, and the doctor started asking me questions about what I do for a living. Well doc, I work at Starbucks. "Starbucks," he said, "last time I went there I got a mocha but it ended up being too cold and I couldn't drink it." That really sucks doctor, but can we not have this conversation while you're inside of me?
Really though, what type of conversation do you have while you're essentially being fingered by a 60-year-old man? I really like what you've done with the place, sir. Has that picture always been there? This is usually when he starts in with his questions. It went a little something like this:
Doctor: Are you sexually active?
Ashley: Not for the better part of 2010.
Doctor: Can you open up a little wider?
Ashley: What is this? The dentist? I can't open my vagina wider on command. I, at least, need some bit of foreplay.
Doctor: Your vaginal mucus is extra thick, which means you just finished ovulating.
Ashley: Thanks for the reminder that another menstrual cycle has passed and I still don't have kids nor am I married or in a committed relationship. Say, are my sisters down there with you?
After violating me with a piece of cold metal and taking whatever was left of my dignity, he then performed a breast exam.
Doctor: Did that hurt? (regarding my nipple piercing)
Ashley: Um, a little. I don't really remember. I got it my freshman year of college a few years back.
Doctor: Oh, so then you're about my daughter's age. You remind me of her.
The last thing I want to hear while being felt up by someone my father's age is that I remind him of his daughter. After he finished with that, he patted me on the leg and told me they'd call with my results in a few days.
Have you ever asked your doctor for a hard copy of your pap smear test results? He's all weird about it. No, those are for my records. Oh, I just wanted to see what exactly was being tested. Oh, well, they're mine. Alright doctor, you can have them. You take them home and touch yourself to them late at night.
As I exited the doctor's office, my eyes hit with the harsh sunlight of the afternoon, and I was struck with the realization that that pap smear was the most action my vagina had seen in roughly 10 months. You think the doctor will think it's weird if I schedule another one for next week?