To Muff or Not to Muff: My Gynecological Adventure

                   

     Ladies (and gentlemen?) I had a pap smear recently. What is that some of you ask? Well, it’s when you take off your clothes, open your legs...never mind this is going in the wrong direction. Let’s try that again. It’s an exam to make sure that the big C doesn’t intrude on the lady parts. Cervix, to be exact. The little cottage between the uterine universe and vagina village.

            You arrive at the gynecologist office and nervously sit 6 feet apart from other women who are scrolling Facebook to distract themselves from whatever fun procedure awaits them. From here you’re escorted to the exam room where you take off your white, high waisted sensible panties. This is not the place for a lacy, black thong. The nurse leaves a small piece of thin, blue tissue paper to cover up your down there and it tears as soon as you touch it. It always tears. The doctor walks in and you look up startled as you’re desperately trying to paste the paper back together with just the power of your mind.

 

            You lie on the exam table and try to wiggle your bottom right up to the edge where the doctor is patiently waiting to stick stuff up your woohoo.

 

            “Come a bit closer”, the doctor says with a smile. “Just a bit closer.”

 

             Although the table is covered with another thin slice of paper, your awkward wiggle makes a farting sound as you jerk across the table. Feet are relegated to stirrups to make for an optimal vagina village visit. (I once had a doctor wear a head lamp. It’s like he was preparing to explore the unknown and I was freaked out about how far he was going to venture.) You wait until the last minute to open your legs. Who wants someone to get all up in there when they have to look at a file folder to remember your name?

 

            They bring out the duck lips. I hate the duck lips. It’s a cold, stainless steel speculum that closely resembles the beak of a duck. It opens the gate to vagina village with a click, click, click of the lips so fingers and tools can investigate. Then they pull out their machete to slice off a squishy, pink, piece of stucco from your cottage. For some women it doesn’t hurt, for me it feels like I’m being stung by a jelly fish. It only takes a couple minutes, then they snap off their plastic gloves, smile, and leave you two pieces of Kleenex to wipe away a river of lube. Wham bam thank you ma’am and you don’t hear from them for 3 years. No dinner or nothin'.

 

            The big question, though, is whether to muff or not to muff. How much of a cleaning job needs to happen to your lady garden before the inspection commences? 

 

            I can only think of two reasons to spend the morning getting nicked by the Bick. One, society has taught you to be embarrassed by the muff and two, you’re lookin’ for a partner. For those on the prowl, here are 3 reasons to spruce up that muff before your next cottage inspection (and why I don’t).

 

1)They make the big moola, know exactly where all the fun lady buttons are, and can commit like a mofo. They did 12 years of school, so you know they’re pretty damn good at staying for the long haul. This is a no go for me because my vag is a little too insecure to be among the dozens they visit every day. It just doesn’t feel pretty enough and, honestly, I’m too lazy to mow the lawn. At this point I’d probably need a Weed Wacker. 

 

2)Looking for good medical coverage and connections. I mean, the gynecologist must have an in with the medical community. Need a hip replaced? First in line. Want a bustier bosom? Half off. (The price not the melons.) Need an ultrasound? Pffft, you get the luxury model of tests. Full body MRI’s all the way, baby. Myself, I’d go dentist. My hips work, my bosom doesn’t lack substance it just loves gravity, and although I’d love all the medical tests I could get, it really wouldn’t be good for my health anxiety. But my teeth? They’re a disaster with a denture before 40. Between psychiatric meds and the genetic lottery my teeth are weak AF.

 

3)They have a prescription pad. Hey, no judgements here. I’d love a few pages from my psychiatrists pad. 

 

            So, there you have it. You now know whether to muff or not to muff next time your cottage gets a house call.