I had my GYN yearly this week.

I say it was my yearly, but it was more like my year-and-a-halfly. I’m not fond of my yearly, so I put it off with just about any kind of excuse. Having run out of excuses, I made my appointments for both my mammogram and my exam for the same day. Why ruin two good days, right? Mammogram first, then exam. At least that’s what I thought. I show up for the mammogram with plenty of time to spare, sign in, sit, and wait. I wait a long time. I bought six new apps for my phone. I love shopping.

Finally, I am called back for the x-rays. As I follow the radiology tech back to the changing room, she looks back at me and says, “I decided to fit you in early since you were just sitting out there.” (Huh? Early?) Then it dawned on me. I had my two appointments mixed up. I stopped dead in my tracks and said as much. She laughed and said, “Happens all the time. Let’s go ahead and get your test done, and send you on up. I’ll call them and tell them you are coming.” I’m already calculating how this mishap is actually going to save me an hour or so of my time. A nice bonus for this kind of day.

So I take off the clothes I have on from the waist up, and put on a hospital gown backwards. Wrapping it tightly around me, in vain of course, I walk into the x-ray room. I let the tech make pancakes out of what God seemed to think was enough bosoms for me, and in all honesty it wasn’t too bad. I try to make a joke out of the fact that I hardly have enough tissue to worry with even having an exam, and she tells me it’s a lot better than those “big ‘ol boobs she has to fit on the screen.” I guess everyone has their own job challenges.

After that, I fly back into the changing room and quickly put my clothes back on. The tech shows me a shortcut to the elevator, and up I go to the next part of my humiliating afternoon. Profusely apologizing for my mix-up, I sign in and sit down to wait for my GYN appointment.

A nurse I had not met before calls me back. First thing, she wants to get my weight. I think, “This is not a good way start to our relationship.” Why is it that the scales in doctor’s offices are always wrong? Did someone put a brick in my pocket?

The nurse leads me into an exam room and checks my blood pressure. Then she tells me to take off all my clothes, and put on a paper towel vest and cover myself up with the other paper towel provided. She didn’t actually call them paper towels, but that’s what they are. I thanked her for my daily dose of humiliation, and she left me alone to figure out how to manage.

I rush through the process because I am always paranoid that someone is going to bust through the door while I’m still working out the logistics of my paper towels. It’s never happened, but I’d rather not be the joke around the lunch table.

After slipping into the paper clothing, I pull myself up onto the exam table, ripping my paper towel nearly in two. Anyone got tape? After only a few moments my doctor came in and sat on her round stool.

We chatted a while about kids and life. I like my doctor. I’d much rather chat at Starbucks, though. At that moment, I felt at a bit of a disadvantage seeing that she was actually wearing real clothes.

When after a few moments of chatting she determined it was time to get down to business, she was able to keep the conversation going while she first checked my top half, and then my bottom half. She’s good. I wondered how her mouth and brain could operate on two totally different planes at the same time. Her mouth was talking about kids while her brain was evaluating my parts. It’s a gift.

With all the pleasantries and un-pleasantries done, she asked if I had anything else. I did.

I mentioned that I would really like to be able to sneeze without also then needing to put on a fresh pair of panties. I told her that while sneezing is hazardous, running is completely out of the question. I also admitted, that after four vaginal deliveries, I was fortunate that I didn’t have to drag my bladder around behind me, (love that visual?) but that it might be time to go under the knife and have that taken care of.

We talk a bit about my options and in the end she hands me a brochure to take home to read and think about. After she left the room, I look at the brochure. It is titled, “Urinary Incontinence” and pictures two seventy-ish ladies on the front. Nice.

I’ve heard getting old isn’t for sissies… but really? I want a brochure that pictures great looking fortyish women who through no fault of their own (rather from birthing big headed children) need a little tightening up in the bladder department. That’s not too much to ask, is it?