WARNING: I’m going to talk about vaginas. Mostly my vagina, but I’m going to generalize as much as possible, for your gentle minds. It will probably be like “The Vagina Monologues” minus the wit and bad-assery of Eve Ensler.
I had to get a pap smear today. Because of my awesome job as a freelancing bad-ass, I don’t have health insurance. It totally blows and I might be eligible for ObamaCare, but I have yet to have a chance to properly investigate (instead I write blog posts and watch HBO a lot). So, for now, I’m paying out the wazoo for prescriptions, etc. (And please don’t tell me I can get individual insurance, I can’t. I’ve been rejected more times than a geek trying to get to 1st base with a cheerleader (I like to stereotype)).
So what this all means is that instead of going to my regular gynecologist in Insurance Land (where I would probably end up paying hundreds of dollars for someone to get to 3rd base – hey, shouldn’t they be paying me for this?), I went to a walk-in clinic. I had been there before, so it wasn’t completely foreign terrain, but I certainly didn’t have someone swab my hoo-haw last time. I do like this walk-in clinic. They don’t take insurance, so it’s like a big “FUCK YOU” to people who have insurance and somehow, this makes me feel better about my situation. Their prices are reasonable and their facility is clean. They have a free parking lot. The odd thing is that the 2nd floor is a medical marijuana dispensary, which I guess makes sense since it is “medical” marijuana. The waiting room smells like pot, which is weird, but also oddly comforting. You get to watch the EXTREMELY varied clientele who go upstairs to this establishment. I’m talking business-looking people; gangbangers (can I say that without sounding racist?); elderly, feeble-looking ladies; young, over-tanned hotties; and dudes who have SpongeBob SquarePants boxers hanging out of their pants.
Anyway, so another plus for this place is they don’t weigh you. They have a scale, but they just asked me my height and weight. This is a major plus when you’re as self-conscious enough about your weight as I am, not to mention those medical scales have had it out for my self-esteem from day one. They always say you’re 5 to 10 pounds heavier than your scale at home. So did I lie about my weight? No, I implemented the standard for all women- you deduct at least 10 pounds whenever you tell someone your weight.
So I finally get in a room and I see the tray of apparatuses that they are going to stick in my nethers. I kind of start to feel like this is a circus freak show and our gimmick is “Let’s see how much stuff we can put in this chick’s vagina.” You always hear horror stories about the cold, metal duck lips, but the speculum was plastic and I had a very nice physician’s assistant get to 3rd base. She was very professional and polite and laughed at my jokes. All in all, it was a pretty great first date. Normally I like to have dinner and movie, maybe some over-the-clothes action, but this girl went straight for the gold. I am kicking myself for not taking advantage of the situation and making some curtains/carpet jokes. I hate missed opportunities for inappropriate jokes!!
The whole scenario is awkward. Men complain and joke about the whole “turn and cough” hernia test, but I think this is far worse. It’s also REALLY not fair that people are more comfortable talking about penises than they are vaginas. Why did I have to put a warning at the beginning of this post? Is it because society has taught me that vaginas are secret or something? Well, I have a vagina and I take care of it, even if doing so involves a complete stranger and a q-tip. Deal with it, world. I’m going to talk about vaginas as much as I want to and you’re going to have to just fucking get over it. I’m BLONDE and a FEMINIST with a VAGINA.
Today gets 5 Barbie Warhols:
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