Dear Gynecologist

Dear Gynecologist,

Don't you think this annual exam would go better for both of us if you bought me a drink first?

I remember being around 12 or 13 years old when I read an article in "Sixteen" magazine about annual gynecological exams. The memory of that article is burned into my brain. The article stated that women need to go to a gynecologist when they turn 18 OR when they become sexually active. That's when I vowed to remain a virgin for all of my natural life.

The article described in great detail what a gynecological exam entails. I COULD NOT BELIEVE what I was reading. Why in the world would any doctor venture into that cavernous space and root around?! Why were women not rioting in the streets over such a violation?! Why didn't anyone ever tell me about this?! I was simply disgusted and shocked!

Of course the 12 year old female brain is different from the 39-ish year old female brain. At least now I understand the medical benefits of a pap smear, and I know the doctor isn't just digging for lost treasures. By the way, where did I put my keys?

Despite my understanding of the need to endure such a humbling experience, I still remain curious as to proper etiquette. For example, if I were expecting house guests I would want to perhaps mow the front yard and certainly vacuum the living room. I understand the innate desire to to trim the bush before introducing your vajayjay to a gynecologist, but why do I also feel the need to shave my legs and paint my toenails?

Now, if I have the courtesy to tidy my yard, couldn't the doctor do me the courtesy of not making small talk while shoving cold metal objects into my fruit cellar? (Yes, I have a nearly endless supply of euphemisms for the word vagina.)

It's very difficult for me to talk about my summer vacation plans while there is seemingly a fist and a curling iron-like device knocking on my cervix. Hello? Please let me retreat to my happy zone where I image this entire experience is part of a bizarre dream sequence.

Men, I know you have the prostate exam to complain about, but two fingers and a cough is a fun night on the town compared to stirrups, metal objects, a blanket made by Brawny the quicker picker upper, and a side table filled with strange, cold metal objects. Top it off with a chatty gynecologist and you have an appointment from hell.

So, Dr. Gynecologist, I'll shave my legs, tidy up my living room, and prepare for our "visit", but could you pretend to be a deaf, mute physician who is not the least bit interested in my travel plans?

Thank you,
A 13 year old at heart