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My dear readers, my friends… I have failed you, and perhaps I have failed myself as well. The other day while commenting on Omigosh She’s Naked (very funny— read it) it came to light that I have neglected to relay to you one of my life’s— truly— most humiliating experiences.

That simply won’t do.

There is some closure for me, some (dramatic pause) dissolution of the embarrassment that I feel as I hand it over to you, my loving congregation, my partners in crime, my compatriots, and my companions down this blog we call Naptimethoughts, to laugh with me at my own ridiculousness and foibles.
Therefore, this omission can not stand.
I intend to right it today.

Whatever.

Whatever.

Please accept my humble apologies for forgetting to offer up this plate of mortification, indignity and shame for your amusement and hedonistic relish.

I remember it as though it were yesterday…

The year was 2008, May. I was quite pregnant with J. My feet were disappearing like a fart in a fan factory and I hadn’t seen my legs since Rudy Giuliani was running for President. I had not shaved anything in the lower region of my body since it had gone stealth. Underwear had become my most elusive foe, and I had given up on socks entirely. This particular day, I was wearing clogs, maternity pants (which frequently irritated my armpits), and a maternity shirt that made me look like some crazy circus tent. I was a hot mess. Even Dora wouldn’t explore me.

I drove to my appointed destination and waddled inside. I took up two chairs in the waiting room, from which my ass STILL overspilled, and watched some lady in a sweatsuit, who apparently had not been getting enough sunlight, pick up a prescription for vitamin D.

I judged her harshly and immediately.

She must be the World Record Holder of Lazy. Who can’t go outside for ten minutes a day? Only someone in a sweatsuit defending their title.

Normally, I would have given her the benefit of the doubt, and allowed “Vampire” as a second option, but I was quite irritated by the two (formerly) outer edges of my plastic throne that had recently come together to form the very center of my seat, and, just then, happened to be riding up my ass like it was an episode of Bonanza. I was not feeling charitable.

I waited. For a doctors office, there wasn’t a great deal of reading material. Not even an old issue of Highlights. Goofus and Gallant would have been a welcome distraction.
I had just begun reading a pamphlet on Inflammatory Bowel Disease (Urrrgh, that shit ain’t right) when I was called back to see the doctor.

Now, let it be said that I had been to see this doctor once before. My prior appointment had been easy peasy. A breeze. I had no reason to believe that this appointment would be different in any way.

Oh, but friends, I was wrong. So wrong. So horrifically, mortifyingly, frightfully and heinously wrong. I walked into the exam room, where the nurse instructed me to disrobe to my underwear and put on a backless blue paper “gown”.  With that, and before I could so much as pee a little (for all you men out there, that’s what pregnant ladies do. We pee a little), she was gone.
She was gone, and I was wearing naught but my girlie bits as undergarments.
Panic set in.

I stared at the blue paper gown.
I looked around that room as if underwear and a razor might magically appear before my very eyes, if only I willed it so.
Then I stared at the gown again.
Nothing good could come of this.

A choice had to be made. Either I stayed dressed, and confessed my nakedness (as well as my fear for his wellbeing upon seeing it), when the doctor (whom I do not know any better than pair of magic underpants) came into the room, or I put on the gown and hope for the best.

I took the gamble and put on the gown. I mean, what was he really going to do to me? He’s not an ObGyn, he’s a rheumatologist. And he’s a DOCTOR, right? He must have taken Anatomy at some point.

Door number two. Doesn't she look happy?

Door number two. Doesn’t she look happy?

The blue paper gown didn’t fit, of course. I should have known, my baby “bump” had grown from hill to mountain to “effecting the tides” by then. I tried to gently tug it closed around my (probably) hairy ass, and it ripped in front, halfway up Mount J.

Fuck.
(Please remember that this event occurred before I had any kids, so I cursed like a sailor. Now, as is right and proper, I look around the room first.)

It was something like this... But imagine fatter, and far less graceful.

It was something like this… But imagine fatter, and far less graceful.

After a thorough search of the room for another blue paper robe, a stream of naughty words, and a few “Jesus Christ, where do they keep these things?” I noted the time.
The likelihood was that the doctor would be in any minute, and I had no choice but to admit defeat by paper robe and my own severe lack of foresight.
I sat on the table, naked ass towards the wall, and waited.

I had just enough time to wonder if the single plastic chair in the room would hold my girth long enough for me to try and squeeze out the room’s only (gigantic) window, when the doctor came in.
He was not the easygoing type. In fact, my impression of the man to date said very clearly:
“I’d prefer not to see your vagina today.”
I saw him take note of the rip in my paper robe. I tried to hold it closed with my fingers, but the ass portion of the blue paper robe kept creeping past it’s boundaries. I opened my mouth to confess… It had to be done… But he cut me off (quite tersely, might I add) with a bunch of questions regarding my health.

I started to relax a little. Maybe the tiny blue paper robe was just a prerequisite for everyone’s second visit, examined or not. Besides, I really didn’t feel like explaining why I was nakey under the drapey.
Then he said:

“Please lay down on the table.”

Oh fuck.

I felt the word vomit coming. He had to know the truth before it was too late, but he was talking again (he kept fucking talking) telling me how he was simply checking my joints for full range of motion. I did a quick tally of all the joints in the body. Knees, ankles, shoulders, elbows, wrists… Not bad, no need to lift up my blue paper gown. He turned my wrists in directions God never meant them to go, but we were okay. He moved my feet around, and assured me that they were still there (strained laughter).

I made nervous jokes about my hairy legs, and why I might (I couldn’t really be sure) have the lower body of King Kong, and just as I was feeling like this might be okay, just as I thought I might get away with minimal scarring, he bent both my legs at the knee.

Range of motion, you see. Hips are joints too. Fuck. Hips, I forgot about hips. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.

Everything moved in slow motion, the anticipation of my pending abasement was written by each passing second across my face. I grabbed at the ripped blue paper gown, which was all there was between me and the money shot, but it was too late. He pushed my knees apart, checking my hips for… Full range of  motion… And suddenly there seemed to be a spotlight IN MY BAJINGO (and really, at that point in my pregnancy, I couldn’t say for sure that there wasn’t) shining up into his face. His eyebrows had disappeared into his forehead. He made a noise, I think he might have swallowed his tongue.
My appointment had turned into the beginning of a very bad 70’s porno.

I took the moment to inform the good doctor that I had chosen to go commando that day.

I think he understood, but I’ll never be sure. All the color had drained from his face, and he took a step back, like there was something in there that he was afraid would bite him (which is also entirely possible. I hadn’t seen the Holiest of Holies for myself in quite a long time, I really couldn’t tell you what might have taken up residence). As he gathered himself, he pronounced all my joints healthy, and said to see the receptionist about a follow up appointment.
Doctor out.

Yeeeeah. It was something like that.

Yeeeeah. It was something like that, but picture “less Korean dictator”.

Right. A follow up. Because I’d be coming back to that office EVER AGAIN.
In fact, if I’d been able to get my irritating maternity pants on properly, I’d have been out of there faster than the fat kid in a game of dodgeball. Unfortunately, it took a little while for my feet to find their way back into those designer pants, and then for me to get them pulled up, sans eye or hand assistance. But you can bet that when I finally got them back on, I waddled out of that office like my ass was on fire, back to my car and home, to bear my shame alone, for Naptimethoughts was not yet a glimmer in a secretary’s eye.

Update: My hoohaa is perfectly normal again. I can look at it whenever I like, and I’m positive there are no monsters living in there. I can also reach my feet, and it’s no longer a danger for me to shave my lower extremities. Not that there’s hair on my feet. There isn’t.

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