Hap-pap-pap-a-ning

You've waited a long time for this post. I best make it worth the wait.

How can a blog about girl parts and the gynecologist NOT be worth the wait? I put off writing the blog until post-pap. I didn't want you to miss a thing. I went to the gynecologist today, so I am fresh and pretty and ready to blog.

Now, I know you've read the story about the lady who had glitter on her lady parts when she went to the gynecologist. There is no glitter involved in this tale, so no worries. You've almost certainly read the post about the lady whose self-waxing job goes horribly, horribly wrong. No waxing was involved in this story, either. (If you haven't read either of these stories, you need to find them on the web. You'll enjoy a loud guffaw, I assure you.) While I don't need wax or glitter, I do need extended use a razor blade--after all, everything you own is in perfect view when you are at the gynecologist. Miss a hair on your ankle? BAM! It's there to see. Haven't shaved the top 1/2 of your legs in a few years? BAM! The nurse can see that stuff from across the room. One does not want to go to the gynecologist with stray armpit hair or a dirty belly button....

As it was time for my kinda-sorta-maybe-not-annual annual pap and exam, I scheduled an appointment. I'm all good with getting a quick check under the hood to make sure all is firing as is appropriate. I decided to go to a friend's doctor, as mine fell off the face of the earth (I'm not kidding--there is no record of him anywhere--I've googled him to the point it is stalking). I've seen this new doctor's "work," as I viewed a DVD of the hysterectomy he performed on my friend. (THAT'S something you don't get to view every day). It was an easy enough decision. The appointment was set. All I had to do was groom and wait. Or, wait and groom, I suppose.

Side note: I am bitter than I'm 53 years old and still get my period EVERY. SINGLE. MONTH.
Side side note: I could be my own child's grandmother at this rate.

Later in the week, while seated at the kitchen table eating lunch, I have this terrifying thought: I could not remember if I removed my "last" tampon from this month's visitation. I experience a rush of thoughts and emotions. How could I not know this? Why would I not have removed it? What if it's still in there? Of course, I cannot for the life of me recall anything about this "event" or "non-event."

There is only one thing I can do: look.

I can't say I have ever really done this kind of "search and rescue" mission and I wasn't sure how to approach this predicament. I'd never really looked before. I mean REALLY looked. Why look? What could possibly be so exciting down there that would require a lengthy gander? I plodded up the stairs, grabbed the wife's "I-need-this-to-pluck-chin-hairs" magnifying mirror, dropped my drawers and popped a squat.

I'm not sure if it was the magnification or the lighting or the angle, but let me tell you, I was stunned by what was going on down there. I daresay I let out a gasp.

Now, since I don't know what it looked like down there before this blessed event, I don't know if things look the same or different. All I know is things don't look like I thought they would look. I found myself wondering WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?

I will spare you the details. Let's just say that I wasn't sure if "this view" was an age thing, a normal thing, an oh-my-god thing, a "something to be proud of" thing.

Side note: My words of wisdom to you are: GO LOOK AT YOURSELF. This was a big thing to do back in the 1970's but I haven't heard anyone talking about this for decades. Well, I'm here to revive this activity. After reading this blog, grab a mirror and take a really close look at what is going on down there. (Well, I suppose this won't be the same for men...but, they have stuff they can look at, too.) By taking a gander now, you'll know if things change. Because I had not looked, I did not know if the view was representative of my entire adult life or the last five five hours or since I sneezed last week. 

I totally forgot about the tampon.

For the next few days, I spent a lot of time on Google, looking for photos of girl parts that matched my girl parts. This is a nerve wrecking endeavor, as one must be careful not to click on the wrong link, lest porn, viruses or malware invade the lands. Suffice it to say, I saw a lot of things of which might or might not look like anything I own. Armed with knowledge, I was ready for the doctor.

Today was the day. Fresh and pretty, I met the new doctor. I'm pleased to report that he spent much time talking to me before I had to show off all my newly shaved parts. That's always a good way to do business, if you ask me--clothes on while talking. I described my concern--tampon, yadda yadda, look in mirror, yadda yadda, is that supposed to look like that????? Being a gentle, kind soul, he described what he was doing and seeing. In detail. Seriously--I really didn't need to hear all that commentary, but it was nice for him to try. At least he kept things moving while he was talking. In an effort to keep conversation going, I managed to say stupid things--like, how I viewed the DVD of him doing a hysterectomy. I'm not sure what's weirder--that I said that or that I watched the video.

Um, yeah--that view down there? It's exactly what it's supposed to look like...or, so the doctor said. I guess I should believe him; after all, I'm sure he's seen a lot of interesting things over the many years he's been in practice and I haven't even seen myself. The doctor added that most people don't look and thus they don't know what things really do or should look like. Points for trying to normalize my weirdness and ignorance. He won bigger points for not laughing. I give the nurse the biggest kudos because she had to hear me ask my questions twice and not laugh. I'm sure she'll have a great story for when she goes out with her friends after work. She smiled and nodded through the entire ordeal. Geez.

He was unable to say much about my bionic ovaries. When it's time, it will be time. Until then, I shall continue my march toward menopause, month by month by month. Sigh.

For the record, he did not find a tampon. 

So, your homework is to go look at yourself. I'm not kidding. Do it in honor of the Addiverse. Do it in honor of the women of the world. Do it in honor of yourself. Do it in honor of lost tampons around the world.

.....Just don't use one of those magnifying mirrors lest you burn that image into your retinas.
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