Going to see the doctor.

I am warning you now, this story is more distasteful than usual. For those of you who get offended easily, now is your turn to look away.
I have always been sort of a mess when it comes to visiting the gynecologist. Not because I have a history of bad results, or shudder when coming face to face with the speculum. My problem, believe it or not, are the robes. When I lived in New York, I was spoiled rotten by my gynecologists office. It was right on Madison in a high rise building, and each patient was greeted with brand new robes so comfy you could sleep in and sat in a room where on each ceiling displayed a video of ocean waves crashing on a beach. If I didn’t know any better, I could have sworn I was secretly entered into Promises Rehab Center.
I went there for so long that I must have forgotten that most OB-GYN offices did not operate this way, nor did they have these fabulous facilities. I had to go back to reality the hard way. I was living in South Florida for a month when I made my first gynecologist appointment. The doctor had a very nice reputation and I was looking forward to getting the whole thing over with. Her office was nice enough, a building that had a great view overlooking Miami Beach, and the waiting room was very clean.
After waiting a few minutes, the receptionist called me in and showed me into my room. She handed me a small package, told me to undress, and assured me that the doctor would be in shortly. That was when I looked down and saw what was in the package. There was no robe to be found; instead I saw what appeared to be 3 pieces of paper towel with 2 holes. I panicked- this could not have been what I was supposed to wear when meeting my doctor for the first time. What would she think of me? I tore the paper towels open and stuck my arms through its holes. I sat on the exam chair, put my feet in its stirrups, and looked down to see that my entire vagina was exposed. I got out of the chair, looked around, and saw to no avail a cover for my lap.
“Well if this is the way the office operates, so be it.” I admit defeat, sit back onto the exam chair and hold my breath, accepting my fate. A few minutes later, the doctor walks in and is greeted by my vagina.
“Hello, I am Doctor ___”, says the doctor.
“Hello, my name is Ashley,” says my vagina.
“Um Ashley…you’re…um…sitting on the lap cover…I don’t know if you are aware…” the doctor pointed out that the 4th sheet of paper towel I was sitting on was actually the paper towel that was supposed to cover my bits.
“Oh…right. I should have known.” I sheepishly pull the paper out from underneath and cover myself up, feeling stupid and strangely unattractive. I mean, she was going to see it regardless, what did it matter at that point if she got an eyeful of cooter?
I obviously could not bring myself to see this doctor ever again. And I wish I could say that that was the worst situation I have ever been in at the gynecologist. Sadly, it was not.
The last time I went for a check up, it was at an office right by my home. This one was even less attractive than the former, with no high rise building or fancy views of the city. This one was loud and had The View playing on a static television that would cut in and out every few minutes. A woman that made Precious look like Naomi Campbell was sitting right next to me in the waiting room, and when she wasn’t hacking up a lung or sweating profusely she would fall asleep and snore so loud I thought she was having a heart attack. Finally after what felt like eternity, I was called into my room.
“Please let there be a normal gown to put on” I wished with all my might.
I get into the room and am greeted by that same stupid package of paper towel I was dreading. However, being that I am a grown woman and not 12 years old visiting the doctor for the first time, I believed that there was no way I would screw this up again. My confidence was sky-high and I start putting on the robe, but I notice right away that this robe is a lot smaller than the last one. There are also no holes to put your arms through, so I proceed to awkwardly wrap the paper towel around my body. When I go to sit down, the paper towel stars to rip and tears right across my left boob.
“FUCK!!!!!” I scream. “Why the hell can I not figure this out???” I am in full panic mode at this point, as I obviously cannot have the doctor walk in to find me bottomless, my vagina fully exposed, and a boob hanging out of a paper towel rip. She would probably file a sexual harassment law suit against me and THEN where would I go for a pap smear? I rip a piece of the paper covering the exam chair and place it over my lap, my ass and the used chair getting way too personal. The doctor walks in immediately after.
“Ashley!” cried the loud mouthed doctor. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Wardrobe malfunction?” I shrug.
“Out of all my years practicing, I must say I have never seen a patient more confused. Why aren’t you wearing the robe? It was right on the counter!” The doctor points to a separate package that held the robe inside. Basically, I was wearing the lap cover as a robe, and a piece of the chair as a lap cover. What the hell is wrong with me?
I honestly could say I have never felt more stupid in my life than at that moment when the doctor pointed out my failure. I have another appointment coming up next year, and when I go, I hope that I will be wiser.

Blockheads.

Matt and I had just gotten married last May, and we decided to go to the most romantic city in the world for our honeymoon: Vegas. Actually, it just ended up being the cheapest trip we could find without staying at a Cockroach Inn. We were super excited to go since Matt never visited Vegas and I was there once when I was 15, which clearly does not count. We found an online special to fly Southwest Airlines and to stay at the Bellagio, which altogether cost less than 2 nights at a Sandals resort. We never flew Southwest before, but figured it had to be a decent airline and it would have been a crime not to take advantage of the package.
We get to the airport feeling high on life and thrilled about how perfect our wedding turned out to be. However, that feeling quickly changed soon after we checked in.
“Matt…how come we don’t have an assigned seat?” I look at my ticket and it just shows that we are boarding group C.
“I guess we will find out once they start boarding,” Matt assures me.
We walk over to the security line, and right away I notice the random groups of large, dumpy women wearing New Kids on the Block paraphernalia. Women wearing NKOTB shirts, sporting NKOTB baseball caps and holding NKOTB pictures were huddled together like some deranged sports team going through security and singing “Step by Step”. I decided not to make a big deal of this, for flying is not one of my favorite past times and I just wanted to get to Vegas unharmed. Besides, I was sure the odds of them being on the same flight as me were slim to none.
We go through security and walk to our gate, and we see signs that read A 1-30, A 31-60, B 1-30, B 31-60 and C 1-17. It all of a sudden hits me that for some stupid reason Southwest Airlines does not believe in assigned seating, but instead you must go by groups and pray that you get to sit next to the person you are flying with.
“This is the most retarded thing I have ever heard!” I say to Matt. “We are one of the first people to check in to our flight, yet we are part of the last boarding group!”
“I know this is ridiculous, but we are on our honeymoon,” Matt assures me, “I’m sure someone will give up their seat if needed so that we could sit together.” As Matt is saying this, I see out of the corner of my eye a herd of animals galloping toward our gate. As they get closer, I could make out the 5 letters I was dreading to see on my flight. “Oh great, what the hell is this?” I say outloud.
“Blockheads.”
I turn around and see a frizzy haired woman in her 40’s wearing a see through tank top and what might as well have been pajama bottoms. She had a rose tramp-stamp tattoo which I found very classy. “Excuse me, what did you just say?” I ask her.
“They are Blockheads. And you are surrounded by us.”
“And what, may I ask, is a Blockhead?”
Pretty told me that a Blockhead is a New Kids On The Block fan, and they all had just gotten off the NKOTB cruise (yes, they have their own cruise ship) and were on their way back to whatever cave they crawled out of. “So you better watch what you say about us.” she threatened me.
“Yeah whatever, I could take them.”“Trust me,” Pretty growled, “you don’t want to mess with us.”
I had enough at this point and walked away from her and got into my group. They start the boarding process and I already know that I am going to be seated by myself in the middle of 2 Blockheads, and Matt will be seated in the toilet. About 5 hours later they call group C and we walk to the plane. On a side note, the whole time we were waiting there we were lucky enough to be entertained by a group of hillbillies singing a whole medley of New Kids tunes. By the time they were done singing “The Right Stuff” I wanted to call the whole honeymoon off.
We get into the plane and what do you know, the entire flight is packed with single fliers, all who have decided that the middle seat was plagued and therefore took up all the aisle and row seats. “What did I tell you, I knew we weren’t going to be able to sit together!” I wanted to scream.
Matt all of a sudden pushes me out of the way. “EXCUSE ME EVERYONE! MY WIFE AND I HAD JUST GOTTEN MARRIED AND ARE ON OUR HONEYMOON AND WOULD GREATLY APPRECIATE IT IF SOMEONE MOVED A SEAT SO THAT WE COULD SIT TOGETHER!” He stops and waits for a good humanitarian to graciously give up their seat so we could be together. Instead, nobody moves but just stares at us as if we had just announced we were part of the Taliban and would be hijacking this plane. I swear I saw someone start to drool.
“Please, could anyone give up their seat so that we could sit together?” Matt pleads. “This is a full plane and everyone is eventually going to be sitting next to a stranger anyways!”
We seriously wait another 5 minutes for someone to say something when Jesus, aka seat 15A stands up. “OK, you can have my seat. But you owe me a drink!”
We kindly thank the heroic man who so bravely left his seat in search of another one and we take our spots. I am relieved, and so is Matt, and we slowly drift off to sleep to the lulling voices of 20 Blockheads singing “Hangin Tough”.