...because everybody wants to hear about today's trip to the gynecologist (In other words: this is the most exciting thing that's happened to me lately). Okay, not really. Okay, really.
In commemoration of today's rather bland festivities, I thought I'd share a past gynecological story with you. And, truth be told, this one isn't all that intriguing either. That said:
When I was a freshman in college, there was a 6-month stretch where I was continually on my period. Finally, it occurred to me that "yeah, this isn't normal." So, I went to the emergency room late night. You might think it's odd that this epiphany struck me so late in the game and so late at night. And you would be right. Lesson learned.
Second lesson learned? That old rule about the emergency room paying the most immediate attention to the bleeders - yeah, that's a complete farce. Case in point: they ignored me, leaving me to rot in the heinous, backless get-up that goes with the territory.
Not known for my sheepishness, and a bit sick of waiting around, I commenced moseying around the emergency room, asking innocent nurses and similar bystanders where the hell my doctor was. Evidently this was an effective method because as soon as I returned to my little ER cell, my doctor walked in. Male Doctor. Holy Hotness. This was not right. After all, my outfit was completely wrong.
Anyhow, he told me I had some kind of hormone problem and prescribed me birth control pills to straighten me out. I felt like a complete jackass when I left, but chalked the event over into the "oh well, I'll never see him again" category - this being the category where we girls similarly direct incidences of letting it loose in a public bathroom when strangers are present.
As you might have expected, I saw him the next day. At the smoothie shop. With his woman.
"Hi, weren't you in between my legs last night? Good to see you."
I didn't say it (in actuality, I ran away without paying for my smoothie). But wouldn't it have been funny if I did?
Yes, I do believe it would've been.