This is for my girls. You know who you are.
I get ready to go for the annual exam and I pay more attention to my hygiene at that time than I do the rest of the year put together.
I bathe, use body wash, bubble bath, exfoliate, shampoo and condition my hair, shave, shave again, lotion, body spray, perfume, powder and anything else I can think of. I cleanse so thoroughly, there is no odor of human being left on my body
THEN, I do my hair, spray a ton of hairspray on to further mask natural odors. I dress with my newest, prettiest panties and bra, put a ton of perfume on, and head to the appointment. The aim is to be at the Dr. one second before I get called back. If, by an awful stroke of fate, I am require to go to the potty before I am seen, I use the wipes I have stashed in my handbag, and clean until I've nearly sanded all the skin off.
Once in the exam room, the nurse gives me a tissue paper gown and tissue paper sheet and tells me to remove everything. The gown is secured by a belt made of the same plastic as the cheapest trash bag. The clothes fly off, and I fold my blouse and pants neater than I ever do at home. In spite of wearing my best unmentionables, they are hidden in the folds of the outer garments. If I allow the unmentionables to be viewed by an ob-gyn, the garments will spontaneously combust.
So, I climb up on the doggone table, and wait. And wait. Then we wait. Nurse comes in and says the Dr. will be there soon, because they are stuck delivering a baby. I get to sit there nekkid as a jaybird except for socks. If I keep my socks on, I'm not truly nekkid. Sometimes the wait is minutes, sometimes hours. Can't move because the gown will disintegrate. Once the Dr. comes in, I discover I am sitting in a small puddle of anxiety-induced perspiration.
A good gyno's eyes never break eye contact. (only applies if the gyno is a guy. a gal is less awkward.) Each gyno has their own style. Some of `em check your mammaries first. They ask all kinds of questions about the girls while they prod about looking for anomalies.
When it's time to get to the business end of business, the tools come out of the deep freeze while I try to get in position. My ample bottom half hangs off the table while the feet are in frigid metal stirrups. The Dr shines a beam of light akin to fire onto my bottom and tells me to relax. Tools are used to pry open things best left closed, while the Dr takes another tool, perhaps a wrecking bar, and scrapes cells outta the vajayjay. This process is not fun.
Then comes palpation of the whole lower guts from more directions than I approve of. I don't know what the Dr. can tell from the whole palpation gig, but it's incredibly awkward.
It's all over. The Doc leaves the room, and I throw my clothes on in 1.6 seconds flat. It's a great fear the Doc will walk back in and catch me with my dignity compromised. Oh wait, that's what was happening all along!
