the gyno

            This past week I went to the gynecologist. THE dreaded gyno. Yes, the old man who checks my ovaries and touches my breasts. Yes, the same man who gave birth to me.  It is overall an uncomfortable situation and one that I do not particularly enjoy.  Indeed it does not aid the situation that the appointment falls annually around my birthday; 19, 20, 21, 22.  To be honest, I don’t know if the hangover helps or hurts the situation; my thoughts on the matter change annually.  At 21, I remember thinking that the pounding in my head and my mismatched hangover outfit made be bold and invincible to the uncomfortable-ness. Let me just say, it was not the same this year. At 22, I felt old and awkward.  

            Once can only imagine how I felt sitting naked under what is practically a cheap table cloth for a second grade birthday party where, undoubtedly boys and girls spill gallons of apple juice.   While feeling all this, sitting in the  waiting room I was given (after being weighed; which no female under the age of 30 enjoys) twiddling my thumbs trying to prepare myself for what I knew was about to happen. The small talk, the cold hands, the personal questions.  I felt terrible and I only felt worse when I glanced to my right and there at eye level was a framed image of a baby in a womb. A happy baby? potentially implying a happy mom? A happy family? It was all too much. And then it was over.