In which I am forced to do something horrific in the name of health

October 26, 2005


I am about to do the unspeakable. The unimaginable. Almost the most frightening thing I’ve ever had to do.

I am changing my Ob-Gyn.

(I can feel all you men going, “Oh, come on! Who gives a shit? Gimme a break?!” while all the women are simultaneously saying, “No! Oh, my G-d! WHY?!”)

The reasons why I’m changing are not as important as the fact that I have to change. And we women know that there are two Very Crucial People in our lives that we never, NEVER want to leave us: our Ob-Gyn and our hairdresser. (And, yes, our husbands, but many will say it’s easier to find a husband than a good hairdresser or FAST ob-gyn.)

And? To make this even harder? I’ll be changing to a MAN for the first time ever. I get all freaked out just thinking about it.

If you ever want to hear what could be the most enlightening conversation women ever engage in, sit in a room while women discuss men vs. women gynecologists – and why they could NEVER EVER go to a (insert gender here).

Understand, there’s a lot that goes into an ob-gyn appointment. There’s the bathing and the shaving and / or waxing and the drinking to sum up the courage to sit half-naked in socks on a cold table and be told to, “Scoot that sweet, fine ass to the end of the table, BabyGurl.” This ensures your knees will be as far apart as possible thereby putting you in the preferred upside-down whore-frog position and The Violating can begin.

Before I was pregnant with The Swimmy, I would cancel and reschedule ob-gyn appointments at least twice before actually making one. (I dropped that routine while pregnant – I had a whole different kind of anxiety that pushed me not only to make every single appointment, but get there early.)

And so, in a few weeks, I will go on the First Date with my new, male Ob-Gyn. It will not have drinks and dinner so much as it will have cold, metal instruments and a really long middle finger. And this guy better be fast.

Like lightning, cheetah, F-16 going Mach3 with your hair on fire fast. I’m just sayin’.

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