Warning: this post is intended for female readers only. Mature female readers.
So, all you young male readers should stop reading now.
Good, all clear. I’ll carry on…
November 16th had been circled on my calendar for weeks.
In preparation for the big day, I showered.
I washed my pits. Twice.
Shaved my legs.
Slathered on lotion.
And deodorant. Twice.
Where was I going?
What was the big deal and the need for a double dose of deodorant? A big date? Meeting some big wig?
It was my most-dreaded appointment. Of the medical persuasion. And I really don’t want to talk about it.
Just know it required nudity on my part. And that, lemmetellya, ain’t pretty.
For some reason, those visits never really bothered me when I was pregnant… I mean there was a baby in there. It was an exciting time.
But with an old, floppy, and very empty womb, there just isn’t much to get excited about. In fact, there’s much more to sweat about. And it all was sitting there with me on the table as I waited for the doctor to come in.
One thought occurred to me, as I waited for the dreaded knock on the exam room door. Maybe I should consider getting as gussied up for my husband as I do for my doctor.
Naaaaahhh. He wouldn’t know what do with himself.