My cervix, myself.

(September 14, 2006)

Every time I get a pap smear, my doctor says something crazy to me. Aside from the normal awkward conversation, I mean. I'm convinced there's a class gynecologists take in medical school to teach them when and how to solicit personal inquiry; there's definitely a fine art to the timing.

Visits to the gynecologist invariably invert social mores and patterns of conversation. I'm not sure why my sexual history and mating habits are discussed while I'm fully clothed and sitting upright in a chair, yet when I'm naked and V-shaped on a table, I have to talk about what I made for dinner last night, or the weather, or my undergraduate major.

The third worst thing about getting a pap smear is the polite conversation. The worst thing is the subsequent hyper-awareness of everything happening below my bellow button, and feeling like a walking vagina for the remainder of the day. The second worst thing about getting a pap smear is the unpredictability of the anatomical commentary, such as 2004's classic: "You're kind of a bleeder."

I'd like to say today's experience was especially uncomfortable ("Any itching, bleeding, or discharge?"), but, honestly, it wasn't any worse than usual. Until -- "Ok, we're almost done. You're really tight."

Of course, from anyone else, I'd probably have to say "Thank you," but in absurd gynecological world, everything is inverted. So, instead, I just said, "Oh. Sorry."

I'm sure the "Turn your head and cough" moment is uncomfortable, too.