My New Pink Box

Hey all!  Today, I’m going to talk about shoes!! SHOES!  I got new ones and they are awesome and I’m going to spend the next 10 minutes of your life talking about them!   They are this adorable ballet flat, kitten heel, leopard print, strappy sandal and I LOVE THEM!!!!  They are super comfortable and make my ankles look super skinny!  I plan to wear them with my skinny jeans and adorable new tank top this weekend.   SHOES!!!

 

SOOO CUTE!!!  And they were only $450!!!  Steal!

OK.  Are they gone yet? If the pic didn’t do them in, then the price will make them run.  (Seriously, those shoes are cute and $450.  How fun would it be to pluck down that kind of cash for just some wear once holiday shoes?)

This post is just for us girls.  If there are any guys left reading still, they are either gay and as soon as I say the word vagina they will be out soon enough, or my husband, who is still simmering about whether I actually bought the above mentioned shoes.

Today, I went to my hoo-ha doctor.  You know, for my lady parts.  The super fun yearly exam that we women have to endure to make sure that cancer isn’t poking it’s little head into any doors we don’t want poked (by that anyways, and yes the double entendres will be overflowing on this post).

So, I sit in the waiting room, and it’s me, 10 super pregnant women, a handful of kids, and a lady so old that I imagine vaginal problems aren’t what’s going to kill her.  Do you think when she’s in the stirrups dust comes out if she sneezes?  Cause that’s what I am picturing right about now.  And yes, I am picturing an old lady’s roast beef in my head.  I mean really, if I get to 95, I’m just going to say it was nice knowing you doc, but I’ll take my chances from here on out.  No way I’m getting my saggy taco up into stirrups.

I’m knocked out my daydreams of old muffs when they call my name.  I head back for my yearly vag party.

First off, why do I shave my legs and wear nice underwear?  First, he doesn’t see the undies, those are long gone by the time it’s time to give the fetus factory the ol’ checkeroo.  And when’s the last time your doctor touched your leg during an exam?  And if they do, that’s what’s going to gross them out?  Doubtful.  (And if they do touch your leg, please make sure you are not doing your yearly exams in a seedy hotel by the airport.  Board certified has nothing to do with erections ladies.)

And why do I get nervous gas whenever I go?  Seriously.  I could not eat for a week, and I’d still bloat up like a balloon and freak out about how I might be giving my doctor a strong headwind while he’s doing the how’s-your-father routine on my hot pocket.

Anyways, after I pee in a cup, walk it out proudly to the nurse, who totally gives me the you-need-to-drink-more-water face, I’m up on the next step of the walk of shame.  The scale.  I prepped myself for this already a few days before by getting an initial reading in private, so my reaction would not be quite as intense.  You see, I haven’t been on the scale for months for a number of reasons.  1) I just recently hopped back on the healthy wagon and know the number can’t be good.  2) My weight has been fluctuating the same 5 lbs. since I started trying to lose weight, so it’s oftentimes awesomely demotivating. And 3) scales make me want to jump off a cliff.  It’s just a number.  What really matters is how I feel, not some stupid number on a stupid scale that stupid society tells me needs to be a certain stupid number.  Which it never is anyways.

Sidenote:  Do you think nurses take training courses on how to keep a neutral face when the number pops up?  Mine was excellent today at the no-emotion face, because you know deep down one tiny Hmmm or sigh will create a shame spiral that ends with emptying out the Halloween buckets in an hour.  One word lady…one word… and I will eat my feelings tonight until I pass out!!!

Needless to say, I was prepared, so there was no gasping, moaning, beating on my chest or tearing of robes.  I calmly said OK and hopped off like that number didn’t disappoint me.  Of course, I was wearing extremely heavy shoes, crazy weighty clothes (think chainmail armor) and of course, said bloat from nervous gas.  So give or take a pound or 20 and I’d say the scale was accurate.

Once the formalities were over, I got naked and sat on the table. Yes, I had the “gown,” which gleefully exposed my tushie to the lucky lottery winner to walk in the door next, as well as my paper drape which is there to maintain my brain’s separation of me and what everyone is actually looking at down there.  (Once it slipped and I freaked out because my brain realized OH MY GOD THEY ARE ACTUALLY LOOKING AT MY VAGINA DOWN THERE!  I have made sure that hasn’t happened again, but then I’ve had 2 kids, so really I don’t have any dignity left to speak of anyways.  It’s hard to get embarrassed after a 19 year old male nursing student runs your catheter at delivery time.)

Of course, my underwear and bra were discretely tucked into my clothes so as not to offend.  I was actually excited to be there and I prayed he was running late because I recently discovered Candy Crush and was looking forward to ripping through my 5 lives in a futile attempt to get to Level 30.  Out of 450 or so.  I am obsessed, which I knew would happen, which was why I avoided it for so long.  Then my daughter starts playing it on Mark’s phone, then we have to get it for my phone, and I just have to help a wee bit here and there, and BAM, I am counting the minutes at work until I can play again.

No suck luck.  Bastard’s running on time.  We make small talk and act like I’m not butt naked on a table waiting to show him the bearded clam and that’s it’s not the millionth one he’s seen today.  (Really, not the dream job you’d think it be for men really.)

He asks if I’m pregnant (standard question, no offense taken, he totally wasn’t even looking at the food baby).  I gasp and yell NO a bit too loudly.  It’s not like asking me the question will actually make conception happen, but I adamantly assure him I am in no such way nor plan to be EVER AGAIN.

And since I’m mid-30ish, we get to talk about mammograms, lumpy boobs, ridiculously heavy periods, mood swings that make Heeere’s Johnny look stable and other fun, comfortable topics of conversation.  No more baby questions, getting pregnant questions, fertility and so on that 10 years ago were all I thought and dreamt about.  Nope, now it’s questions like cancer?  Cancer here?  Cancer there?  Is this bump cancer?  Is this normal?  Yes?  Or is it CANCER?  Or the ever fun looming conversation of the M-word.  Menopause.  Cause yes, now that I have successfully birthed two adorable children and ruined said areas of my body, I now get to look forward to 10 or 15 years of hot flashes, mood swings and intermittent periods that stop, go, stop, and then GOOOO again.  Awesome.  Can’t wait.

Some days I wish I had a penis.  All they have to do is turn their heads and cough.  But then, nevermind, it’s a ridiculous piece of flesh and how annoying would that dangler be schlepping around all day long?  But then again, what woman hasn’t wondered what sex is like for a dude?  How awesome can it be to rule their every thought since the dawn of time?   Pretty epic I imagine.  But that’s a topic for another day.

Hope you enjoyed my oversharing.  Until next time.  I’ll clean it up next time and maybe for once talk about something heartfelt and educational.