Coffee in hand, I arrive at Planned Parenthood for a routine exam. The security guy stops me in my tracks,
“No beverages allowed.”
Whoa! Who knew? It’s the airport. Am I allowed 3oz of my coffee?
The guard takes my purse, directs me to the metal detector and asks,
“Do you have any metal in your pockets?”
As he sifts through my wallet, glasses and old tissues, I walk through the metal detector and set off the alarm. He looks at me. I look at him. He hands me my purse and sends me inside sans coffee but with whatever set off the alarm still undetected.
I get in the stirrups. I’d prefer if this whole part were done in silence. The doctors always want to chat, but that doesn’t make me any more comfortable. It weirds me out that we’re talking about my hobbies like we’re having a cup of coffee (which isn’t allowed), but actually you’re inside me poking at my uterus.
As she’s a hand deep she asks,
“Where do you work? … Oh I love that bar, the cheese fondue is delicious.”
“Yes it is.”
So next time I see her,
‘Oh hello, you’ve seen my cervix, what can I get you to drink?’