As you know, I got a new camera. And just like anyone who finds a new friend, I’ve been spending quite a bit of time getting to know her. The camera has been attached to me for the past seven days, and has clicked through quite a few car rides, cat jumps, bees on flowers, donuts dipped in chocolate, etc.
This morning was my annual gynecological visit. (Wait. You’re suddenly nervous about that camera paragraph, aren’t you?) Because I’m absolutely terrible when it comes to anticipating morning traffic, I left my house an hour early and ended up being 38 minutes early for the appointment. I considered treating myself to a coffee and I toyed with the thought of indulging in a fast food egg biscuit, but ultimately I decided to sit in the parking lot with a half-knitted scarf and my camera.
My camera has a self-portrait setting, so I decided to take some photos of myself in an effort to document what I look like before receiving (receiving? is that right?!) my annual pap smear. It turns out that I look not completely unlike this:
So, I’m sitting. I’m clicking photos. I’m wondering why the shadows on my face make it look like I’m wearing orange foundation. I’m posing with string cheese. I’m turning up the music and getting into this self-portrait thing. And unfortunately, I’m being watched. By my gynecologist. Yeah. She walked by and smiled as I was blasting Metric and getting goofy with my camera. So, that’s not really what I wanted to happen, but that’s what you get when you choose Gynecologist Parking Lot as a photo shoot location.
After about fifteen minutes, I entered the building feeling nervous and sheepish and self-conscious and all of the other things you tend to feel before participating in a pap smear. I had my blood pressure taken (it was returned shortly thereafter), I placed my pee in a cup, and I wrote my mailing address on a card that will be delivered to me next year on May 18th to remind me that it’s time for my annual pap smear. All ends nicely tied.
I was then led back to a room where I traded cotton and denim for paper and was given ten minutes to nervously sit in that paper while filling up on pap smear dread. (Am I the only one who gets worked up like this?)
My gynecologist (I really do love her) entered the room and asked what’s new.
Dr. C: Nothing?
Me: Not really.
Dr. C: Well, I guess that’s a good thing.
We then discussed the weirdness under my arm and my Dermatologist Incarcerated (I get you, Amy Winehouse). We discussed my birth control pills and how I do believe I’ll stay on them forever. And then I put my feet up and all of the blood rushed out of my head.
Dr. C (pushing metal things into my own private Idaho): So, how old are your kids now?
Me: Four and six.
Dr. C (swabbing and swabbing): Four and six. That’s so hard to believe. Wait. I can’t remember your oldest daughter’s name.
Dr. C: Meredith?
Me: Yes. That’s correct. Wow.
Marilyn. God only knows where my head goes when I’m trying to escape from the moment.
As the doctor was getting ready to leave the room, I somehow found a way to bring up turkey basters.