Note to any men, male relatives, or easily offended readers of this blog: The following paragraphs will contain references to lady bits, va-jay-jay's, and other mysteries of the deep. Please feel free to hunt off elsewhere for something to read.
For the remaining eight readers, let's discuss OB/GYNs.
I have been going to my current one for about four years. Originally, I had seen someone else, but she no longer became an option on my insurance, and her practice offered up my current physician as a replacement.
After baring my lady bits to the world not once, not twice, but THREE times with the birth of my children, I stopped really caring too much about who takes a peek at my hoo-ha. All I really need out of a GYN is a cervix swab and the daily prescription that keeps me from single-handedly maintaining the profits at Tampax, so honestly, one pair of hands is just like the other.
I should say, one speculum is just like any other.
Cue my introduction to the current lady bits inspector.
The first time I met her, I waited for the real doctor to come in and wondered if she was a high school student interning for the day with the nurses.
I'm not kidding. She seriously looks like she is 15. She is perky, chipper, and annoyingly adorable. She could easily pass for a high school cheerleader, and at any moment, I half expected her to lead the room in a cheer for my excellent va-jay-jay.
But instead, she hiked up her shirt sleeves, slapped on the rubber gloves, and went deep into female territory.
Through the always-pleasant cervix swabbing conversation, I learned that she was only a year into her practice.
By my calculations, that would make her roughly the same age as my children.
Okay. Maybe I exaggerate.
But only slightly.
It is a little disconcerting to start being older than the doctors that are taking care of you. You expect wisdom to come with age, and assume that you automatically know more than everybody else who is younger.
You don't feel any older, yet almost overnight you become a woman with grey hair, wrinkles, and cobwebs on your uterus - all while kids that were born while you were in middle school suddenly are licensed physicians patting your hand and mumbling, There, there.
It's the stupid circle of life.
And next week, when I'm sitting in the stirrups, clapping along to the chants of, "Go! Vagina, Go!" I will take comfort with this one thought: I might be getting old, but the only hoo-ha I spend any time with on a daily basis is my own.
I can't say the same for the va-jay-jay cheerleader.