One Well Woman

Today, FINALLY, things seemed to start turning around for the better. The weather was beautiful, I felt like a ton of bricks was being lifted off of my chest, and even though there were a few little disappointments in my day, I had to stop and reflect at the end of the day--they actually could be interpreted as blessings.

I woke up at the crack of dawn this morning, did about a million and one things on my must-do list, and still managed to make an appointment for my well woman exam. I am about the only woman I know who actually likes going to the gyno. My doctor is not only one of THE most conscientuous women I know, her staff has got it TOGETHER. They know the answer to EVERYTHING. I feel like I'm a guest on the Dr. Oz show, so I make an actual list on a 3x5 card of every question I can think of. Of course, most of those questions go out the window the minute that speculum steals my virginity. I momentarily thank God that I wore sexy panties, and that my brand new lacies are draped over my pants on the chair next to the table. Then I start to think about it, and who the hell cares? My doctors are women. I doubt they really care, unless it's to think they're really cute, and run out and buy some for themselves. I also am thankful that I always make sure I am groomed and waxed and am very "Brazilian" from the waist down, even if I am Mexican at heart. Because really? If I was a gynecologist, or my boyfriend? I would be really effing happy with me. In fact, if I was my gyno, or my boyfriend, I would be sending ME flowers by the dozen.

All these thoughts are interrupted by the cold, slimy antiseptic gel. Honey, let me tell you. It is not exactly KY warming liquid; and the conversation that my doctor makes about vacationing in Newport isn't going to take away from the fact that there's a footlong Q-Tip inside of me. Seriously? What about all my questions? I knew I had some...what happened to them? Oh, who the hell cares. Ovary, shmo-vary. Barbara Walters couldn't remember her questions during an experience like that. Once your feet are in stirrups, you're pretty much done for.

Aside from the five minutes in the uncomfortable, unpleasant, ass on the edge of the table position we women all know and loathe, my day was pretty great, and that's how it goes in life; it's a series of ups and downs. But when you have faith, things start to turn around for the better. And if you're lucky, you learn to make the most of everything.

Even when you're in stirrups.