The Scooch Doctor

**Warning for MEN: Just don’t read this today.

Go read about Barbecue or Fishing or Golf. Thank you.**

So today was the day. THE day. My annual check-up at the OB/GYN. Well, just GYN right now, but he was so much more fun as the OB.

At OB visits, you are excited about what you weigh, you get to hear a baby heartbeat, you don’t have to get undressed and you don’t feel quasi-violated.

But today was the GYN visit. It started off in the waiting room for a while where nice “lite sounds” music was playing and there were stacked magazines coming from every direction. One lady was there waiting and she didn’t want to chat. I’m always a little suspicious of those types.

Then when I got called {Ooh! Lucky Me! What do I win?}, I went back to the rooms- all I’m familiar with from 2 recent pregnancies- and got weighed. Ugh. Just as I suspected. That winter weight is lingering around until spring. I think the scale Sprang forward 10 pounds or so last weekend.

Then back to the room, blood pressure checked {110/60}, then instructions to wait for the doctor and to “put on these”. Of course she meant to take OFF all my clothes and last shred of dignity {what was left after the scale} and put ON the paper towels that they call robes. Then the waiting began.

You’ll be happy to know that I DID shave my legs, but I forgot toe nail polish! Oh no! Chipped and half- painted pink isn’t showing off my best side, but I guess that wasn’t what they were there to see.

I had to wait a particularly long time today because of someone’s emergency surgery (did they even consider me??), but I made the most of my time casing the tiny room.

• Ceramic cross cut vagina model? Check.
• Nuva ring display {how in the world that thing could actually work}? Check.
• Mandatory large calendar and picture of babies on the wall? Check.
• Plastic bubble wand looking things stacked in some sort of display case with jelly nearby? Check.
  

Then I counted the weeks until Memorial Day on the giant calendar and counting how many pounds I should lose each week. That would be 2 pounds a week for 10 weeks and then I will be in pretty good shape to be seen in a swimsuit. Check. I’ll get right to that. As soon as I can get OUT OF HERE.

At this point, I’m sweating through my paper towel gown and hearing the doctor’s voice in the hallway booming that he needs a nurse in 3. What room am I in, again? Then I hear a knock, knock on another door. Danggit.

Finally he got to my room and the exam began. The conversation is always weird, isn’t it?

My doctor always feels obligated to ask about my kids- I guess since he delivered them and all- then it’s usually on to something like football or asking me what church we go to for the 18th time. It doesn’t matter what the conversation is, it’s just a band aid to cover up the action that’s really going on. The truth is that someone is doing what you might not even encourage your husband to do and might be considered illegal in a few bordering states.

Can’t think about it. Think about football.

Then the dreaded words, “Could you SCOOCH down a little bit?” Down the chair that is, of course. Because they need a better angle whilst your legs are forced into the squat position hoisted in the air. Nothing makes me cringe quite like the word, “stirrups”. Bleeeewwww.

Finally. O. Ver. With. YES!

I made it back out the hallway, to the front desk and out the door to freedom.

Until next year, Scooch Doctor! Have fun with your crazy bubble shapes or whatever it is you do with those things. Please don't tell me. I promise I don't want to know.