Dear Gynecologist

Dear Gynecologist,

I know, it’s been a while. I realize we’re supposed to see each other with a certain degree of regularity, and that I’m not exactly holding up my end of the bargain. And yes, I know it’s important, and that I need to give you a call and schedule a time when we can meet up. Take the plunge, spread the legs, and get it over with like a big girl.

But I have to be honest here: I’m not exactly enthusiastic about coming to see you, and I’m going to tell you why.

First of all, I’m paying you to check out my lady parts. Generally, when someone gets that intimate with someone else, there’s at least dinner involved first, possibly even a little flattery. But no, I don’t even get to wear a nice outfit, or if I do, it ends up folded neatly in your little plastic chair before you ever see me in it. (With my undies hiding underneath, because heaven forbid you see those even though you’re about to be inches from my vagina.)

I shave my legs from ankle to hip, my pits just in case, and meticulously groom, well, you know, whatever needs to be meticulously groomed — just like any normal woman would do when someone’s face is going to be hovering near their vag.

But instead of a candlelit dinner and some wine and conversation and something backless, I get to chill solo in your sterile, brightly lit office awaiting our swift encounter. Okay, I may be in something backless, but it’s also ass-less and made of paper and not what I’d call haute couture.

Instead of being at a nice restaurant or in a swanky hotel, I’m twiddling my thumbs and staring at framed pictures of flowers — right next to the posters advertising birth control and listing the warning signs of, like, gonorrhea. There are no rose petals or champagne in sight, but there’s an array of torturous-looking metal tools all laid out, flanked by tubes and swabs and rubber gloves.

Is this supposed to make me feel comfortable, Gynecologist? Because to be honest, it really just makes me feel like I’m going to crap all over your table. I mean, maybe if you took me to a movie or something first, I might be a little more relaxed.

I’m not saying I don’t appreciate everything you do for me. After all, nobody else who’s ever been “down there” has had the medical wisdom to tell me how great my cervix looks (uh…thanks?). But usually when someone’s in that vicinity, I’m not staring at fluorescent lights until my eyeballs burn and trying to make small talk. If you’re gonna be poking around down south, I’d like to know you well enough to know your middle name and how many siblings you have and your cell phone number. I mean, we’re not even friends on Facebook. I don’t even know if you’re on Facebook. Yet look at you, all up in my business (literally, wrist-deep!) like you own the place.

So I’m sorry if I’m a little delayed for our annual rendezvous. I’m sorry if I’m a little reluctant to put my feet in those cold metal stirrups and slide my butt down to the end of the table and put “the goods” on display for inspection. It’s just hard to act glad to be there when all I can think about is how there’s a virtual stranger going places where toilet paper doesn’t even venture.

Do you appreciate the fact that I spent an hour contorted like a pretzel in order to remove unsightly hair (and dulled an expensive razor blade in the process)? Or the fact that I used enough feminine hygiene products to make your entire exam room smell like wildflowers? Or the fact that I am struggling valiantly to hold in a fart because being nervous gives me gas?

I’m not sure you appreciate me, Gynecologist. So forgive me if I’m having trouble warming up to the idea of you nosing around down there.

I have a little suggestion: Next time I come in, maybe you could greet me at the door with a shot — and I don’t mean an injection. I mean tequila.

Or whatever’s strong enough to make that drafty paper gown feel more like a little black dress.