Happens every year. I know it does. Doesn't mean I have to like it. Or go willingly. Kicking and screaming and grabbing hold of door jams and holding on for dear life, I wandered to my yearly appointment. For the first time in I don't know how many years, I actually arrived on time to the appointment.
I was doing fine in the appointment, explaining that no, I was happy with not having kids, but, no, I wasn't going to start using birth control because, well, let's face it, if I'm not pregnant by now, I'm not getting pregnant without some serious divine intervention, and I'm pretty sure whatever deity there may be, She really doesn't care about about my fertility one minor iota. Or one micro iota. Really.
At the end of the appointment, after all the parts that I should have been embarrassed about, after the breast massage for lumps, after the scootch to the bottom of the table with my feet way up, the blinding lights warming up my nether regions, after the moments of having someone not my husband looking not only down there, but in there, too, after all of these should be, but really weren't, embarrassing moments, the doctor told me she was done and I could get dressed.
I hopped off the table, and started dressing, still talking to her when I noticed her eyes flick down and back up quickly. My eyes followed her quick look down, and I realized I was wearing perhaps my most rattiest, thread worn pair of underwear I owned. One of the very, very few which had escaped the wrath of doggie teeth.
And, at that moment, I was finally embarrassed.