Something fun happened to me last week. I went to the grocery store by myself. Holla! But wait, there's more. I was standing in the produce section eyeing the watermelons and cantaloupes when I was startled by someone saying my name- in an Irish accent, no less. And suddenly there he was. No, not Colin Farrell. (Damn!) Far from it. It was my gynecologist. Several thoughts hit me at once. First- this guy is 65 years old and he has a better memory than I do. Especially considering he's used to seeing his patients with little to no clothes on. Second- the last time he saw me, he wasn't exactly looking at my face the entire time, begging the question of whether I should be even more impressed with his memory or that much more mortified. And third- we were standing by the melons. Yep. The irony was almost stronger than the overwhelming urge to squeeze my legs as close together as possible.
It's akin to being a kid and seeing one of your teachers when you're out shopping (but without the memories of cold hard steel up your lady biz). I remember running into my second grade teacher at the grocery store one day and I was awestruck. Teachers actually left school? They had to buy groceries too?? What did they eat? Did that mean they went to movies too? Maybe they actually had lives other than flashcards and spelling tests and report cards. So that day in Kroger, I was jarred not only by the fact that had I just run into a man who had seen parts of me that my husband hasn't even seen (nor does he want to), but also that he was out and about like a normal guy. Without the white coat and scrubs and without all the questions about my cervix. And his cart wasn't, in fact, full of speculums and KY-Jelly like I assumed it would be. (I know because I stole a quick glance). Apparently, he likes watermelon and cheese and cereal. I'm guessing he might even like to go to Target and buy senseless crap because, well, it's Target. He, too, has a life outside of fundal measurements and stirrups and commanding women to push.
So how does one end an awkward run-in like this? "See you, uh, at my next pap smear...?" Probably not. Suffice it to say, I was relieved when he ended it for me with a simple, "enjoy those babies."
Of course. The two culminations of the numerous bodily violations that occurred in suite 500 of our hospital were now sitting at home waiting for me. And that, is a good feeling.
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