If your mother ever grounded you for coming home "high as a kite" even though you were actually stone sober [that day], then you may have also experienced a feeling similar to the one I felt on the day I am about to tell you about.
Let's start a club, kay? I get to be the president because it was my idea.
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| Today's photo theme: Selfies from three years ago. Also, cats. |
One time the government gave me some health insurance in exchange for a year of indentured servitude. So I cashed in some of those benefits at the local gyno in Alabama, where we were living while we served at a group home that I am afraid to link to here because they are wonderful and might not appreciate being associated with blog posts that have "slut" in the title.
Two of my friends had made appointments, and since I was young and impressionable I followed along. What a blessing that the peer pressure I experienced was "Come on, make sure you get your annual pap! Don't you wanna be cooooool? Do it! Do it! You won't!" (Although, those same people did once light some grain alcohol on fire and try to convince me that that's what a fireball was. So.) (Don't worry, they stopped me RIGHT before I actually tried to drink it.)
While I was there I figured I'd ask to be screened for STDs. For the record (and I know I'm getting ahead of myself here because I haven't even told you the story yet but this is my blog and I do what I want when I want to) (coincidentally, same rule applies to my body), you don't need to wait until you think you have an STD to ask to be tested. You shouldn't wait, actually. Not to try to scare you into abstinence, young readers (of which I believe there are exactly none here), but if you've had any kind of sexual contact with anyone at any point you may have contracted something. Your body is something that you have every right to be informed about, and if anybody tries to make you feel bad about that then that person sucks and you should, um. Put them on your list of "MEAN PEOPLE" in your diary and then forget about them. Or something. God, I already told you to get tested for STDs, you want me to deal with your bullies for you too? YOUNG PEOPLE, HONESTLY.
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| Christmas cats |
The place was weird before I even got my feet into the stirrups, actually. You know the person who isn't the doctor that brings you to the exam room and takes your blood pressure with that arm band/balloon contraption? Well, on that day for me that person was two ladies and one of them didn't do anything besides smile too big and nod too fast at everything the other one said. I guess that was the first weird thing, that a person had been assigned to smile and nod. I just thought maybe they assigned a professional smiler to make people feel comfortable, made a mental note to write "NOT WORKING" on a comment card if I could find one, and tried to focus on the lady that was doing all the talking.
Except that what she said was the second weird thing. We got past the "What's your name, why are you in Alabama, you're making HOW much money, are your parents very disappointed in your life choices" portion and moved on to the part where she was supposed to weigh me. But instead of having me step on the scale she just asked me what I thought I weighed. Honestly, I didn't know - I hadn't been weighed myself in a long time, my diet had completely changed over the course of several months and I was doing ten hours of manual labor every day. So I said, "I don't know" and kind of just glanced at the scale. To which she replied, "Oh, what's your best guess?"
I wondered if it was a game. Maybe another relaxation technique misfiring. If they didn't have comment cards I was going to make my own. "FIRE THE PERSON COMING UP WITH THESE IDEAS," I'd write. "JUST PAY FOR SATELLITE RADIO." I told her I should probably just hop on the scale. And then she said, "We know a girl's weight is very personal, so we'll just write down whatever you tell us to." At which point she winked at me.
I was about to take my underwear off in front of a stranger and let that stranger poke around as they saw fit, and my weight was the delicate personal matter at hand? I was too put off to think about that at the time, though, and also too distracted searching for comment cards. (I mean, restaurants usually have them. Get it together, medical professionals.)
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| I feel like I might've used this one before. Oh well. Copy Cat. |
So I guessed, "Probably around 150." And the lady immediately said, "Oh no, you don't look nearly that big." (!?) I told her I'd weighed around that the last time I'd been on a scale, during my initial training for the job I was doing. And she said, "Well you carry all that weight very nicely" and I said (in my head) WHY HASN'T ANYONE LOOKED AT MY VAGINA YET.
When the gynecologist finally came in to examine me I asked her about the testing and she agreed without much comment. Like, without much anything. We barely talked the entire time. Which is how I prefer it when I'm getting my hair cut, but when someone's looking inside me I'd like them to describe at least a few of the funny bumps. I mean. That's better than a palm reading.
Before I left, she handed me a paper lunch sack literally stuffed full of condoms. The sheer amount of them surprised me - also the fact that she shoved them at me before I even had my pants back on - and it must have shown on my face (curse these soulful, expressive eyes of mine) because she snapped, "Well, you DID just get tested for STDs," faster than [insert relevant pop culture reference here because all I can think of right now are the broads on The View and I've only ever watched that on YouTube] snaps at [go ahead, finish the reference, this is a collaborative effort].
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| I miss that shower curtain. And my hair. And being that skinny. Except not really because if you asked me then I'd have told you I really missed food and sleeping. |
Anyway, that's it. I gave the condoms to my brother that Christmas.
