You can’t handle the truth

There is one day a year, without question, that women have the right to complain. It is the day we slip on a paper gown and wait for a doctor to shove what look like grilling tongs in our vaginas. Let me get this straight. We have walked on the moon and can make video phone calls, but we can’t come up with an easier way to do a Pap smear? (In baby voice) Oh, are my little my male readers grossed out? I will grab my violin after the doctor is finished swabbing my cervix with a humongous cue tip. You know the giant in Jack and the Beanstalk? This cotton swab is probably too big to clean his ears. Think about that the next time you complain about a head-cold.

I will meet a man today and within minutes my feet will be in the air. No, I am not a Kardashian or at frat party. I have an appointment with a new gynecologist. Do you think a gynecologist has ever seen hairy legs? I can tell you it is one of the few times a year I thoroughly shave mine. I usually give each leg a quick once over before my kids are knocking on the shower door asking for something. Apparently, their father is David Copperfield and makes himself disappear when I am in the bathroom. They could be sitting right next to him. I could be on a secluded island off the coast of Jamaica. They would hop on a plane, take a cab, get on a boat and hike through a wooded area (barefoot) to ask me to get them a drink.

I know these tests are important and have saved lives. I just think there should be a no-talking rule in the gynecologist’s exam room. I don’t particularly enjoy small talk when your head is inches from my va-jay-jay. Look, it’s a sure thing. You will get in my pants. There is no need for foreplay. Do the job, release the tongs and we can chat about the weather, your new favorite restaurant, your colleague’s son’s job’s salary, etc. after I put my pants back on.

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