My poor doctor

In a few minutes I'm leaving for a doctor's appointment and my stomach and heart are doing cartwheels.

There's nothing wrong with me – well, there's a LOT wrong but that's not the business of my family doctor – maybe something a skilled psychologist might tackle in a couple of lifetimes but that's beside the point.

Nah, I'm just going for a little "female" adjustment. Been through it a zillion times. I should be used to hopping up on that examination table and spreading my legs and saying something pithy like, "Would you like me to hold a flashlight?"

Doesn't matter how many times I go through this, it's still nerve-wracking. I lay there and try not to think about it, but honestly all I can think about is my poor doctor stuck there in my icky spot, surrounded by massive flab, cellulite, age spots and varicose veins. I have to stop myself from apologizing to him.

"Sorry I'm such a gross patient. I really wish I had a glamorous vay-jay-jay for you to inspect."

Cause seriously, the poor bugger, looking at women's hoo-hoos and men's wankers all day. I suppose it might be better for him to inspect young, buff crotches and inner thighs, rather than the bumpy old flab he sees in patients like me. And it must be depressing for him, trying to teach me to be healthy and faced front and square with thighs so ginormous that he can barely squeeze the speculum through.

Needless to say, I'm all worked up and the first thing he's going to want to do is take my blood pressure, which will be off the charts thinking about his poor dear face implanted in my hoo-hoo.