Visit to the Female Dr., Part I

The inevitable happened: I grew up. Which means that a number of necessary evils caught up with me. I now pay taxes, attend meetings, and schedule my own dentist and doctor's appointments. All of which I find extremely painful, if not 100% traumatizing.

Without going into too much detail, let me tell you about my first "female checkup" as I like to call it. (Coming from someone who, at age 24, still calls it top-underwear and bottom-underwear, you can bet that the thought of this appointment filled me with dread and countless sleepless nights.)

I made the initial appointment my senior year of college, when I would still be covered under my parent's health insurance, and went in to see the school nurse. After she explained the, um, stuff to me, I chickened out and decided I'd wait a few years to psych myself up for it again.

And this was the year. Had it been offered, I would have more than ecstatically accepted anesthesia, or alcohol, prior to the appointment, but alas, it was not.

The nurse signed me in with a grunt and a raspy, "Is this your first physical?"
I turned the color of Bob the Tomato and did a quick nod of my head.
"I can't hear you. Is this your FIRST PHYSICAL?" She yelled through the glass window at the receptionist's counter so that (I reasoned) all the other patients could hear.
I whispered a barely audible, 'yes'. This had to be the most embarrassing moment of my life.

...or so I thought.

She lead me down the hall and to the scale-- also known as the box of shame. She shifted the metal ring over and over and then over some more. She lifted her eyebrow and jotted down my weight. I should've removed my boots, I thought. Feeling inadequate, I judged her: fresh out of nursing school, presumably younger than me, with a sizable beer belly and raspy, smokey breath. Not exactly the picture-perfect idea of health, now is she? (By the way, four months later her "beer belly" had turned into a baby bump, and her once raspy voice was astonishingly sweet.) She handed me two pieces of fabric that were thinner than McDonald's one-ply toilet paper. "Here, put these on."
"Over my clothes?"
"No, take off all your clothes, then put these on."
"All? Including bottom and top underwear?" My neck and cheeks were starting to get warm and I could feel my face turn purple. I saw her do a double-take and then she left the room so I could have some privacy.

Now imagine two rectangle pieces of cloth. One has a hole in the center of it which I figure is meant to go over my head. I'm correct. But what I didn't realize, until much later when the doctor gently helped me rearrange the "garment", was that the long ends of the rectangle are not for making sure your arms are fully covered in billowy sleeves, but rather twist it a 1/4 turn and, aha! MUCH more coverage for your front and back. I'm betting I'm the only patient to ever have done that. I blame it on nerves.

Anyway, the entire exam was horribly traumatizing and it took many phone calls with more experienced girlfriends to finally feel affirmed in their congratulations that I had truly survived a near-death experience. And while it was embarrassing and a level 48/10 on my comfort zone level, I did hear worse stories.

...like the friend who had her cell phone start ringing during the examination-- to the tune of a cat-call.

Lookin' goooood!