Entry 10: Grass On The Infield

To my amazement, I had not gone blind over night and I was only slightly pissed off to find that my transgression did not produce any consistent contracting.

This kid was more stubborn than I thought.

I missed the days when my persistent sweating didn’t create yellow stains in the ass of my white pants and I could control my flatulence. I was ready to get back to doing things I enjoyed like naked cartwheels and facing backwards when I peed in public restrooms to freak out the lady in the stall next to me. You know that women always check out the shoes in the neighboring stall to compare them to her own. Now days I was lucky if I could even wear shoes. If I did they had to be secured to my feet with masking tape before sunrise or my feet would swell to unthinkable proportions and tear through the laces like a Sketchers version of The Incredible Hulk. And ever since I had slipped and fell down a concrete stairwell, spending a day in the hospital with a broken rib, my doctor had taken me off sandals until further notice.

Due to the fact that it was July and my parents lived on an ant hill, there was no comfort in sight for me. Wearing shoes made me sweat. My sweat attracted the ants. Being barefoot made me swell which made me sweat which attracted the ants…F this.

And F this back ache I couldn’t get rid of.

Thankfully I had a doctor’s appointment and I didn’t think anybody would notice if I “accidentally” showed up an hour early to sit in the air conditioned office for a while with my feet up while eating grapes and nonchalantly tearing out and pocketing my favorite articles from their old copies of Parenting magazine. When it was finally time for me to see the doctor I noticed that before handing me a paper gown and asking me to strip down, they put me in an unfamiliar room to wait for an unfamiliar doctor. I immediately ran to the front desk to do some further investigating.

“Who is this imposter posing as my gynecologist?” I interrogated. “I wasn’t aware my doctor wouldn’t be here. I don’t know this person!”

Lies.

“I’ve never even heard of this guy before!”

More lies. His name was on the building. And, truth be told, I knew who he was.

Now don’t get me wrong - in the way of people I didn’t know probing my vagina and fondling my breasts, I decided as early as my junior year of high school that I preferred that stranger to be male. But I had given up bikini waxing in my sixth month of pregnancy and I had long surpassed the point of being mentally stable enough to blindly guide sharp objects such as a razor toward my vagina. This guy was HOT…I’m talking soap opera hot! I knew at some point he’d be unable to resist my girlish good looks and charm and that eventually he'd beg me to allow him to father my son and purchase for me a nice new set of fun bags with his doctor's salary, but I didn’t want his first impression of my vagina to resemble that of Sasquatch. In the same instant I realized how comfortable I had become using the word vagina.

Thanks to my actual doctor’s horrible decision to spend her July vacationing on a yacht on the water somewhere, Sasquatch would have to do.

Defeated, I waddled back to my exam room to wait, and made a mental note that the backs of these paper exam gowns don’t fasten themselves. The next time I burst from my exam room sporting a paper gown in an angry fit of rage, I would have to remember to do it before I take my pants off.