So last Friday, after I had gotten the kids off to school, I headed upstairs to get ready for my day. I showered, shaved my legs and brushed my teeth. I touched up my toenail polish and took extra care with my makeup and hair. I then spent a good 10 minutes deciding on the perfect outfit, including underwear that actually matched and classic pearl accessories. I left the house with plenty of time to spare to ensure punctuality, and I even remembered to pack a book in case I had to wait.
No, I didn’t have a hot lunch date with Doo, nor was I headed to an important job interview or meeting. I wasn’t even speaking at a mommies group or even shopping at Clay Terrace. Isn’t it obvious? I was all dolled up for the only thing that truly calls for taking my personal appearance to the max: my annual OB/GYN appointment!
I don’t know why, but for some reason I feel the need to be beautiful on this most special of occasions. Part of it, sure, is the knowledge that I will be mostly naked and in stirrups in front of a male doctor and his nurse. I mean, I don’t want them talking about my personal hygiene problems after I’ve left! Can you imagine! The other part is that my physician is my age and fairly good-looking. I’m certain I’d feel differently if he resembled a geriatric warthog.
Ooh, I know! Maybe my Darwinian instincts are to blame! They pushed me to be the prettiest, most in-shape mother of four he saw that day, so that in the off chance that Doo and most of the male population of North America bit it, my OB would choose me. No, probably not.
Ah well, I’ll just chalk my strange behavior up to the awkwardness of these kinds of situations. And who can blame me? When you’ve been married for 14 years to the same man and are expected to subject yourself to some fairly compromising positions in the company of another man, you’ve got to use every trick in the book to inspire self-confidence. For me, that’s taking the time to make myself feel gorgeous. My other survival technique is to babble nonstop about the most inane topics during the exam, which of course is just a futile attempt to distract myself from what is happening. Like anyone could possibly ignore a cold steel speculum up the hoo-ha! Hel-lo!
I suppose I should feel sorry for Doo; I go to all this trouble for my physician but rarely for him. (And right now some marriage shrink is emailing me their contact info.) But that’s just because I already know how much he loves me, hairy legs and all. Peace out.