The Annual Exam

It was that time of year again.

The time of year where I have to answer questions like this:




Yup.

It was time for my annual exam. I scheduled it when both kids would be in school. This is because I didn’t want to explain what a cervix was to them.

I hate these appointments. I know they aren’t horrible, but I tend to make it seem like it’ll be worse than it is.

As I waited to be called back, I thought of some things that are worse than an annual exam:

Being in a room with Charlie Sheen

Going to a party that contains only healthy foods and no cake

Thongs

Conversing with the Crazy Twilight Lady who lives on my street, especially when she goes on about Edward and Jacob, who aren’t even REAL


“Amber?” the nurse called out.

Elliptical machines....

“Amber?”

Oh. Crap. That’s me.

She led me to another thing that is worse than an annual exam.

The scale.

“You’ve down four pounds from last time,” the nurse said, scribbling something in my chart.

“It’s my Sketcher Shape Ups,” I explained. “They help me burn calories and help me tone my as—er, backside.”

(Actually, I don’t even know if that’s true. I’m assuming. Or it could be all the stress of things breaking since Tom has been gone.)

The nurse blinked at me and said I could sit on the exam table while she asked some questions.

After I answered those, I was told to get naked, which is basically what Tom says to me when he wants to do the nasty. He’s very romantic, that Tom. Anyway, I always dress at lightening speed because I have this fear that the doctor is going to walk in and my pale ass is going to be waving in the air. I always hide my underwear because the doctor doesn’t need to know that I sport cotton undies with cupcakes on the rear.

And then I waited for the doctor to come in as I sat in the paper gown that crinkled whenever I moved.

I thought of something else that is Worse Than An Annual Exam:

The entire Jersey Shore cast. I still don’t understand their popularity. I just don’t see—

“Amber? How are you?”

Oh. The doctor came in.

“I’m good,” I fibbed. Not really. I was sitting naked on an exam table with only a tiny paper gown covering my goods.

The doctor asked me some questions and then it was time for the exam.

“So you said your husband was in Korea?” the doctor asked as she checked my breasts for any lumps.

“Yes. He left in August and will be back in August,” I replied as pressed down on my boobs. Was I really having a conversation in the middle of all of this? Yes, yes, I was.

Then it was time for the not-so-pleasant bit. Into the stirrups my feet went and I thought of other things that were Worse Than This:

When the McDonalds milkshake machine stops working

Most likely the musical episode of Grey’s Anatomy…

“All done,” the doctor said.

Oh! Neat.

I got a new prescription for birth control and was sent on my way. Yes, I’m still on birth control even though Tom is gone just in case I run into John Krasinski. I’m kidding. It’s just so I stay regular. And so I won’t get pregnant when he gets back.

Two is enough for me, especially when my two are very, very loud.