This Goes Out to All the Ladies

**DISCLAIMER: This entire blog is meant for a female audience. This post in particular. If you are a male, especially one that I work with or my father, this is NOT meant for you. Read at your own risk. I am not held responsible if you get grossed out. Seriously, you don’t want to read it. This goes out to all the ladies.**

I have a really big problem: the gynecologist. (Gentlemen who bravely forged ahead, stop now.) I am a young Christian girl. I ran into a guy when I turned the corner too quickly today…most action I’ve gotten. I think I held hands once in the 3^rd grade, but can’t be certain. I’m a self-induced sexual Sahara, which I am super pumped about, but for some reason, the medical world tells me I still have to be examined on a yearly basis. Why? The answer is obvious. They hate me. It is about that time again, but I am putting my foot down. I won’t do it because the last time was an absolute catastrophe that scarred me for life.

I was feeling thrifty and decided to go to the clinic on campus. How bad could it be? They are bonafide doctors. It will be great. I’ll take a nice stroll to the women’s clinic on the second floor where there is bound to be chocolate and diet coke to accompany me during this trying time. When I got there, something was terribly wrong. I was taken to the first floor surrounded by frat guys with the flu. Good thing I looked so cute and un-sick.

The kindly nurse put me in the middle room, flanked on either side by guys getting the typical flu procedure, a bit awkward for me, but I can overcome it. I was perusing the pamphlets when in walked Mr. Frizzle from the Magic School Bus. This is no doctor. This is a fictional character. Ma’am, I’m not sure you are welcome to explore my nether regions. You look like you have 37 cats. This is the first of many times that I should have called this mission off. But I choose to believe the best in people, so on we went.

She unrolled her bundle of tools that resembled a Medieval torture display and grabbed what can only be described as “metal duck bills of anger”. I’m not sure what I ever did to the duck population, but it must have been terrible. Did our foremothers slaughter a large number of them for some holiday I am unaware of? Is there a duck equivalent of Thanksgiving that has lead to this vengeance?

Now, I’ve heard that some doctors are super chatty during this hellish experience. Ms. Frizzle was no exception. While the duck was wreaking havoc on my body, she decided now would be a great time to start explaining why she was ruining my life.

“My, your cervix is a sneaky little one. It keeps running away from me.” Ummm yeah.  No kidding, lady. Fight or flight? It chose flight. You’re stabbing it repeatedly. I would run too.

“Your cervix is backwards. Interesting.” Wait, what? Backwards? BACKWARDS??

 “It’s nothing big, honey. It would be like if your nose were poking into your head instead of poking out.” Yeah. No big deal. IF I WANT TO SMELL MY BRAIN!!?!? What do you mean ‘nothing big’. My cervix is BACKWARDS! Slow down, Frizz. Let’s talk this out. What does that even mean?

As if sex weren’t already the most terrifying concept I’ve ever encountered. Now, the Frizz is taking it to a whole new level. It was at this point, while my cervix was running for its life and I was contemplating how I was going to learn how to stand on my head, that the tears started to flow…and Ms. Frizzle had the nerve to ask me what was wrong.

What’s wrong? Lady, you and your duck bill just ruined my life.

That was three years ago. My cervix hasn’t spoken to me since.