DISCLAIMER: This story contains
incorrectly named male and female body parts and a trip to the gynecologist.
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I am a trained health care professional.
Okay, I'm a physical therapist...but hey, it counts.
It is safe to say that I have seen all
kinds of internal and external body parts in various stages of
distress and/or disease, previously unimaginable to me.
Throughout all my wound care training, I never fully appreciated just where
the treatment of say...a pilonidal abscess...might take me. (Yeah,
Google that one. Enlarge the photo.)
Suffice it to say, after all my latex-gloved hands and I have been through, it takes a lot to shock or
embarrass me.
Yet, when it comes to talking about
genitalia and whatnot, I have somehow managed to hang on to all the
unsophisticated silliness of an eleven-year old schoolgirl.
Oh, I can put on a good show and fake
the correct use of medical terminology like a pro. But the twinkle
in my eye, or perhaps my ginormous grin, always gives me
away.
I blame this lack of maturity and
professionalism on the shoddy level of sex education I received from
my equally unsophisticated parents and the Borger Independent School
system.
How many of you remember those awful
'coming of age' movies we were forced to see in 5th grade
health classes? Remember how embarrassing they were, and how we
avoided eye contact with each other the entire day of The Movie?
Boys weren't allowed to see ours and vice versa. In fact, the
classroom windows were covered with construction paper to deter
peeping Toms or Tombelinas.
After I became the mother of sons,
I continued to shun correct anatomical nomenclature. As far as they
knew, my baby boys did not have penises. They had 'ding-dongs',
'tallywackers' and 'wickerbills'. These cutely benign names for
their cutely benign privates worked very well for us, until the day I
came in with an armload of baskets. “What are those?” my
youngest male-child asked. “They are 'wicker' baskets, for my
collection.” I replied. He shrieked, ran straight into the
bathroom and locked the door. He refused to come out until Dickie
came home, then he ran straight into his father's arms and held on for dear
life. “Mom has WICKER baskets, Dad! She bought a whole bunch of
'em!! She's gonna collect our WICKERbills!!!”.
You might think I would have made an
effort to improve my parenting skills after that unfortunate
incident. More importantly, you might think my son would have
learned to never trust me with any pertinent information regarding
his junk.
But, no.
A few years later, it was his turn to
be a 5th grader and watch the awful health class video.
As fate would have it, his Dad (who is even less mature than moi) was
out of town on the day Jacob learned about puberty and maturation.
I, however, was more than ready to stand in the gap. Just as that
sweet boy came home from school, I rolled up my sleeves and got ready
for The Talk.
ME: (nonchalantly) “So...did you learn anything good
from The Video?”
JACOB: “Sorta. I'm gonna need deodorant, Mom. I'm gonna get armpit hair. It's gonna stink."
ME: “Gotcha. Anything else? Any questions
about your, uh...privates?”
JACOB: (with a nervous giggle) “Nah. Except...I didn't know it
could, like...do different things.”
ME: “Oh heck yeah. Guys have the fun
body part. Kinda like a Swiss Army Knife: It's a knife, but it also
has scissors and a toothpick and tools...multiple uses.”
This explanation seemed to make Jacob
very happy. His Dad...? Not so much.
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I had to go in for my yearly
gynecological checkup a few days ago. My gyno—although a lovely
man—is my Second Least Favorite Person in the world to visit. My
Number One Least Favorite Person to see is my dentist. Ironical, as you soon will see.
It is important to keep in mind that
after a woman's ovaries are on their last legs, any trip to the gyno
is paved with humiliation. Beginning with the weigh-in.
I am pathetic. Even before I start shucking clothes,
the excuses began:
“I just got back from a cruise...might've packed on a few.”
“...but I have been working out, and my muscle weighs A LOT.”
“I have about 4 layers of polish on my nails, besides all that dead skin on my heels. Add all that together and I'm sure you can subtract at least a couple of pounds.”
After the number on those #^#%
scales sent me to the depths of depression, I was given a Very
Small, Very Thin, Very Short, Very Ugly gown with instructions to
take off all my clothes and sit on a paper-covered examining table.
Always a rebel, I refused to get completely naked. I kept my socks
on.
[As all my sistas know, picking out clean, unholy,
stirrup-appropriate socks is a very important part of
pre-gyno-appointment preparation.]
There I was. My wiggly butt making crackly
noises on the paper sheet, my ugly gown clasped tightly together, the
last shreds of my dignity--my purple socks--covering my tightly
crossed feet.
The door opened and in came the doctor,
followed by his brightly smiling assistant. (Seriously, what does
she have to smile about?)
They pulled out the stirrups and pushed me
back on the uncomfortable table. As he prepared to get all up in my
business, I heard the obnoxious voice of Joan Rivers ringing in my
ear...“Dr. Gyno, at your cervix.”
“Any problems since last time?” He
asked politely.
“Not really. Except...you
know that little bumpy thing? It sometimes gets sore after we have
wild monkey sex.” (Okay, to the best of my recollection, I didn't really say the 'wild monkey'
part.)
“What 'bumpy thing' do you mean?”
he asked patiently.
“You know...my uvula.” I answered. Professional to Professional.
All of a sudden, everything got
reeeeeal quiet. Dr. Gyno looked at his nurse, his nurse looked back
at him, then they both looked at me.
“What?” I asked, confused. “Is
something wrong?”
“Er...I think you were referring to your urethra.” He said, without even cracking a grin.
“Oh. Ha. Haha. Yes, my urethra.
Ha. A sore uvula would be a whole different issue, huh? Haha.” I
said, in complete and total mortification.
Seriously, it is SO much easier to explain a wickerbill...
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