I am officially at the point in my life where going anywhere to do anything that is not accompanied by my children or husband is a secret relief.  No matter what I am doing, it seems that someone wants to take my peace and quiet away. I can’t even take a shit without several people walking in and asking nonsensical questions. If I do lock the doorknob, my toddler slips his cute little fingers under the door, giving me the two-minute warning. You know the one, “get your ass out of there or we are going to burn the house down around you.”

I recently had the pleasure of going to the gynecologist. It was time for my annual and I was excited for this anticipated quiet break.  Most women may hate going to the gynecologist, but I welcome the invasive experience because it is the only doctor’s appointment that my husband agrees the kids shouldn’t be a part of.  With three kids, a full-time job, husband, and a house sucking the life out of me, getting a 15 minute vaginal probing is a nice relaxing alternative. My last visit began rather unassuming. The waiting room was empty. It was calm. I sipped on my Starbucks and read a ridiculous article about 10 ways to make your husband happy. I scoffed softly as I read about the importance of not keeping score in marriage, and why it’s “ok” to admit you’re wrong. Amused, I was escorted back into the examination room. A pleasant nurse greeted me and began to ask the same questions you get each year at you visit. You know the questions, the ones you lie about. “How many alcoholic drinks do you consume in a week?” “How often do you do a self-breast exam? How many rocks of crack do you smoke to calm your nerves after a day of hell with your three beautiful blessings?”  I was given my trendy paper gown to slip into and laid back on the table.

It was so quiet. I closed my eyes to rest, but in walks Dr. Soft hands. We call him this because his hands are as smooth as velvet. How physically taxing could eyeing a vagina be? It’s not manual labor by any stretch.  We exchange pleasantries and he begins my breast exam. As he asks me to raise my arms above my head he begins to tell me about his kid failing math. He is in the middle of pulling my nipples like salt water taffy and I have to listen to why geometry is not his son’s strong suit. He then proceeds to tell me that he can feel all of my ribs and the lack of breast tissue. “Have you ever considered breast implants? He asks? Did he really just try to sell me a set of tits in the middle of my examination? I know my set is less than desirable, but as I tell me kids; “You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit.” Plus, I don’t have eight thousand dollars to throw around on a sweet set of C’s. Believe me, I thought about it.

He continues to the main event.  As I await the cold kiss of the metal speculum he states the normal warnings. “This is going to be cold. You will feel some pressure.” Got it doc, this is not my first rodeo. As my legs are shooting a V for Victory and he is elbow deep in my uterus he naturally asks me, “Did you play sports in college?” I was taken aback to say the least. What the fuck did he just ask me? How on earth do you come up with this question in the middle of a pelvic exam? Was he asking if I played sports, or if my vagina played sports?

Was my vagina whispering to him? Was she telling him a secret? Seriously, what kind of doctor asks that in the middle of an exam? It’s not like he checking my tonsils, he has his fingers on my cervix.  I looked at him and said hesitantly, “Yes, I played soccer. Why?” He continues with, “I could tell.” What the fuck does that mean? Was my vagina communicating with him? Was she telling him all of my secrets from my college days? She did play a mean game of beer pong.  Was he some type of Vagina whisper? I should call the television network TLC and fill them in about this guy; he could have a new syndicated reality show, “The Vagina Whisperer.” I sat there in silence pondering what my vagina was trying to tell him. Seemingly my vagina was much like my mouth, unable to keep quiet. I should have known better, my nickname is the vault. I do have a hard time keeping secrets, apparently so does my vagina. The visit ended and I got dressed. That was the last time Dr. Softhands saw my flattened tits or had a conversation with my vagina.