The last time I spread my legs for a doctor (and no, I haven’t slept with anyone in scrubs), Lindsay Lohan was a law-abiding citizen. Somehow, I had managed to put off my visit to the friendly gyno longer than I cared to admit. A close friend’s recent alarming diagnosis post-gyno visit had fueled me into action. Oh, and my medical insurance suddenly had an expiration date. I’d just been laid off from a job I’d held down for the last six years, the lease on my New York City apartment was about to end, along with the dollars in my bank account. I was, in what you might call, a very large pickle.
Trying to get a grip on how to handle my imminent economic demise was like tossing darts at Jell-o. But things weren’t all bad. I did have one Happy Distraction: Isaac, an artist guy I’d been “hanging out with,” otherwise known as “dating,” for the past two months. Eight years older than me, he had mad dark curls that matched his passion for art and bands that only 14 other people in the world had heard of. And he could recite Snooki’s age (24) and explain her relevance, or irrelevance, backing his diatribes with cultural theory. Isaac left me notes in funny places, hid fruit roll-ups in my bag, and rearranged my book shelf when I wasn’t looking. Best of all, we had sex like teenagers. Note: neither one of us actually had any sex as teenagers, so we were making up for lost time.
“At least you have your health!” Isaac said when we discussed my predicament.
I appreciated the enthusiasm of his utterly unhelpful observation.
But it suddenly made me wonder, Did I? Did I really even have my health?
I needed comfort. Medical comfort. Just some reassurance that I was going to be OK, at least physically. I’d already been to the dentist. Twice in one moth. I filled out forms. People in white coats asked me how my day was going, would I like some water, and did I floss. Okay, yes please, and no.
The night before my gyno visit, Isaac and I bantered over instruments of the feminine persuasion.
“Doesn’t it look like this?” Isaac teased, pulling a metal garlic crusher out of my kitchen and waving it in the air.
It suddenly looked exceedingly large and threatening. I squirmed, crossing my legs and remembering why I had put off my gyno visit in the first place. I was disturbed by the prospect of metallic bodily invasions.
He grabbed another kitchen utensil. “Spatula! No, wait. Specula!”
“Close. Specu-lum. And it’s a lot bigger and colder than that.”
On Gyno Day, I checked my email one last time. Just in case someone in the working world wanted me. No one did.
In my inbox, however, was a message from Isaac:
Good luck today.
His email made thoughts of painful insertions and bad diagnoses dwindle, ever so slightly, and I grinned at my computer.
At the doctor’s office, I stripped and dressed in paper, as commanded. Awaiting my fate, I scanned the room for scary stuff: a pop-up model of a uterus impaled with a baby, and a pamphlet called “Vaginismus: When Sex Hurts.” I’d have preferred a window to stare out of.
A smiling, 40-something woman in a white coat walked in and started talking to me like we were two old friends going shoe shopping.
“I see you don’t like belts,” she said, laughing and kicking something on the floor.
I hadn’t noticed that my pink paper dress came with an accessory. That made me love her. Well, as much as you can love a gynecologist.
After the obligatory Q&A about my sex life, she told me to lie down and spread ‘em. But it sounded more like, “Now please come this way and swing your feet up here.”
She reached for something on the counter. I cringed. Oooh, here comes the garlic crusher!
I bit my tongue and gritted my teeth. She poked, prodded, and cranked as gingerly as possible. A few minutes later, she was ready to deliver the verdict. I closed my eyes tightly. This was the moment I’d been dreading. The moment where she told me something awful about my vagina.
“You’re boring down here,” she said.
“Huh?” I lifted my head off the human slab, my eyes popping open.
“Boring. Your vagina is boring,” she said.
“Boring?” I asked. “Is that … good?”
“Yes. I like boring. I don’t see boring very often!”
The Gyno had spoken. My vagina was blissfully boring. Boring had never sounded so beautiful to me. It seemed I’d made her day, as much as she had made mine. Skipping through the autumnal midtown streets, I couldn’t wait to share the news with Isaac later that night.
“Honey, my vagina is boring!” I shouted as I opened the door.
“But did you tell her what an exceptional job it does?” Isaac replied, laughing.
I may not have a clue what tomorrow holds for my future. But I can can sleep easier knowing I have a boring vagina. And for now, a man who begs to differ.