Akimbo

It's not exactly the world's most flattering position. But I've been in worse. Even voluntarily.

Lying almost flat out on my back with my knees higher than my head, the view is certainly interesting. Though more interesting for some than for others. After all, I'm well acquainted with my own junk. I'm just grateful I thought to get a trim last week, and the redness and swelling has had time to disappear. Otherwise I really would be a sight for sore eyes. Because, as every girl knows, bushy is not pretty.
 
The room is airy and light, yet sterile, unlived-in (duh!), the walls blue-and-white have a few implements attached to hooks just out of reach. Some I recognise, others I do not. A cupboard, the obligatory arty poster, a wheeled stool for the doctor, a grey chair for my clothes. Just below my left foot, a steel trolley has a blue paper towel draped across it. The usual kidney-shaped steel bowl patiently awaits the doctor's used utensils. The air smells of that ultra-clean nothingness that's supposed to reassure, but only reminds me I need to clean our poo-spattered toilets when I get back. Yet that too is strangely OK today.

Lying on the chair, my bobby-socked feet on the stirrups and my legs splayed, I look away from the victory "V" of my silky-smooth legs and across at my neatly-folded jeans on the chair, thinking of the knickers I have stuffed inside. Out of sight. Just in case.

I know the routine: in a few moments the doctor will come in and say, "Hello, Susan!" and I'll say, "Hello, Doctor!" While she slips on those ghastly latex gloves, we'll exchange  meaningless pleasantries about the weather, she'll ask about the kids and whether everything has been fine. All the while looking directly at my naked vee-jay as if nothing in the world could be more normal. And then comes the bit I like least: the cold touch of steel as she inserts the speculum, followed by the ugly, intimate yet impersonal wrenching as my oyster is prised apart so she can swab my insides with an oversize Q-Tip. Just in case.

As I wait for the doctor, listening to the sounds outside in the hallway - the nurses chatting, their plimsolls squeaking as their walk by - I suddenly have a revelation: I feel incredibly sexy. 

Don't get me wrong: I don't want sex. I don't want to do sexy stuff with the doctor or have the doctor do sexy stuff with me. Even if I were into women. Which I'm not. At least, not really. 

I just feel great. Powerful. Bursting with energy.

Maybe it's the stick-on eyelashes I decided on a whim to don before leaving home. Maybe it's the extra-large coffee I grabbed at a drive-through en route. Maybe it's that this time I remembered to go pee beforehand. 

No, I know why: it's because this is ALL ABOUT ME. About my stuff, my body, my lobster pot, my health. Not about the baby. Not about my other children or his. Not about my darling husband. Nor his unfortunate predecessor, God rest his soul. It's not about anyone or anything else in the world. 

For once this is 100% about me. ME!

And I'm lovin' it.