Let me be clear here folks. I will not mince my words. Being a female sucks. Puberty is a bitch, pregnancy and labor are hell and menopause and all the in between is ugly.
Men- let’s see… they go through puberty. They get boners in PE class if they see an elbow of an 8th grade girl. So what? Then when they get old and can’t get a boner from seeing a woman’s elbow, they take a pill to help with that. I will not sympathize with the male species. Sorry.
Lately I’ve been having, female issues. That’s code for menstrual cramps worse than normal. I think I lost about half of you at this sentence. But before you completely click on over to ESPN or Maxim or whatever, Golf Digest, for crying out loud- this may be helpful for you. You probably have a wife or girlfriend who has been through the same thing. You might use this as a cliff’s notes reference guide for the future.
I had to go to my gynecologist which is in the big, shiny city. There’s a parking garage with stalls the size of shoe boxes and elevators that are slower than sloths at feeding time. There’s usually a 15 minute wait in the waiting room, on top of a 20 minute wait in the exam room while wearing a paper gown. Usually my luck is when the nurse calls me back to the exam room, I’m caught off guard somewhat engrossed in my People magazine (thank God they have those in the waiting room and not just copies of Parents or Fit Pregnancy!), and I follow her to the room where she asks me how I’m doing, how are the kids, blah blah blah. Checks my blood pressure and then has me step on the scale. I haven’t even undressed yet and I kind of have to pee. I don’t want to make her wait while I use the bathroom, so I slip off my shoes and suck in my gut and step on the scale. I don’t know why I suck in my gut, I just do. They have digital scales now, not those old fashioned types like from The Walton’s anymore. You’d think these would be to my advantage since it’s like the one I have at home.
The nurse has me read the number. I really didn’t want to see the number thankyouverymuch, but okay. It’s 1_ _ !! Yeah, like I’m going to print it. 10 pounds more than last January, 8 pounds more than my scale at home, and 15 pounds more than the scale in the Bellagio hotel bathroom in Vegas that James and I stayed at 4 years ago. ( I loved that bathroom scale.)
I felt like someone punched me in the gut.
I shit you not- this ad was in the Pregnancy mag in the exam room I was forced to read whilst in my paper gown after leaving the People in the waiting room. Below this image it said, "actual customer 4 months post partum". Bitch.
She has me put the gown on and wait. But I did sneak off to the bathroom before getting undressed. So in the privacy of my room, once I was undressed, I stood on that stupid, f*cking scale again, and I was 2 whole pounds lighter! Well amen to that!
I was sure to tell my doctor this when she came in with my chart.
I like my doctor. She’s very nice. Especially for a hoo-hoo doctor. She didn’t deliver my kids because she only started with this practice 4 years ago, and I miss my old doctor, but this doctor is a pleasant replacement.
After getting prodded (‘scoot a little further down the table please’) she sent me for blood work and an ultrasound in the coming weeks.
The lab for blood work was just down the stairs. So I sat there waiting for 20 minutes (not bad really) and was starving since it had been 4 hours since my morning oatmeal. But I was thinking that between being hungry and depending on how much blood they draw, I can count on losing another pound.
The phlebotomist was a funny guy that talked about heavy metal bands with me, of all things. I don’t mind getting my blood drawn. It hurts, I don’t look, and I hate the cotton ball with the piece of tape around it afterwards, but there’s worse, so I manage.
I’m on my way to the parking garage now, find my parking stub, drive up the swirly parking garage lanes to the top and then get the joy of paying the attendant on the way out.
Going to the doctor is so flippin’ expensive.
Because now I’m depressed since I’m thinking of all the weight I’ve gained, my ovaries and how I hope there’s no tumors on them. Or maybe I do because if they take them out (the tumors, not my ovaries) that could be a few pounds I lose right there.
So I go where any girl would. The mall. I need croissants and tea, and I need them stat.
Tea, croissants, and some makeup is all it takes to get this girl on track again. Well, not really. I was still sulking during my car ride home and then went to go cry on James’ shoulder while he worked from home today.
The good man he is asks, “Would you like some wine?” It was 2 in the afternoon, he was kind of kidding, but he knew what to say. Heaven forbid if he said, “oh you just need to go to the gym more times than you sit on the couch writing on your blog”, I would have smacked that ass hat across the room. (Ass hat is my new favorite word by the way, I will be using it more now.)
So I leashed up the dog and ran around the block listening to Adele and Mumford & Sons. Sometimes when someone is sadder than you it makes you feel better. I even gave James half my croissant.
So you see fellas (who are still reading and haven’t clicked over to Maxim yet), if there’s one thing you get from this post- just get your woman a glass of wine for God’s sake.
Here is the chart James has laminated in his wallet:
The only memorization necessary is "Here, have some wine." Click on the photo to see it full screen.