I had my yearly physical this morning, a pleasure which includes—among other things—my annual pelvic exam. I don’t look forward to it with the excitement of, say, my semi-annual teeth cleaning, but I don’t dread it like some women I know. (I mean, I voluntarily let people tinker around down there from time to time … people a lot less knowledgeable about what goes where than my doctor.)

The woman I saw today is new to me, and she seemed to be a little green in the pelvic exam department. She did remember to warm the speculum. Good, good. But, as she started, instead of the usual “You’re going to feel my hand and then you’ll feel me sliding in the speculum,” she touched me, slid it in and said, “Sorry.”

Sorry? Sorry for what?!?

I quickly realized that she was saying it like “excuse me” not like “oops, I maybe just poked a hole in your uterus.” God, I hate that usage of the word sorry.

Breathe.

Then for the insane part … the opening of the speculum. Dum dum dum. Okay, “insane” is a little strong, but “open” doesn’t really do this procedure justice. Open implies fluid motion— one fluid motion. The opening of a door. The opening of a zipper. The opening of the lines of communication. No, no. This is more like the opening of a tightly sealed jar of pickles. The kind you have to bang on the counter a few times and run under hot water.

Hmm. Not the most flattering analogy when talking about my passion fruit perhaps. Okay, imagine a tightly sealed jar of … um, artichoke hearts.

Anyway, these things … I wish I knew another word for the contraption of which I speak … the, uh, spreaders, I’ll call them, make a frightening ratcheting noise when opening and closing, a noise that brings to mind a splintered, hand-crank drawbridge over a dyke somewhere in the Netherlands. It’s just impossible to hear that sound without imagining your delicate lady parts getting gnarled up in the machinery. Of course, this never happens. Whoever designed the spreader had an implicit understanding of the horror that arises when ratcheting stuff and mushy bits come together.

It took my doctor three jerky motions to get the view she was looking for. With each one, I wondered if the pressure from my incredibly toned and taut vagina was going to crumple the little drawbridge. (It didn’t.) She opened swab packets and poked around for a few minutes.

It’s worth noting at this point, for the aspiring ob-gyns in the crowd, there was absolutely no idle chit chat. Nothing extraneous or aimed at making me more relaxed. No questions about my hobbies or my career. I liked that. Get in. Get out. It should be a guerrilla strike executed with precision and zero flourishes.

Before long, I felt her closing the spreader. Home free. But just as she was about to take it out, from under the paper “modesty cover” I heard her say, “Sorry.”

WTF?!?

“Your cervix is turned a little to the left. I need to readjust here.” She slid it back in and began ratcheting again.

So, yeah, my cervix was feeling a lil cheeky today and decided to fuck with me just because it could. On the up side, my doctor skipped the anal portion of the program. She also gave a mean breast exam.

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I don’t know if its just all the birthday-related attention I’m getting or if it’s a sublimation of the newly formed hole in my heart where my youth used to be, but I feel absolutely mad with the power. So, I’m posting not one, but TWO birthday posts to myself. Yea-uh!

And, yes, you have to comment in both, bitches. (And, uh, you forgot Myspace.) God-daayum. Don’t make me eliminate you and replace you with newer, shinier robo-friends … I mean, dedicated readers whom I’ve never met before in my life.

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So, I mentioned a while back that I’m on the cusp of turning 35. Tomorrow is the big day, and I’m taking this time … the last day before my customary birthday week of Dionysian pleasures … to, ya know, assess, reassess, and generally ponder things.

First off, I want to save you all the nail-biting suspense. I do not now nor did I ever have any intention of discontinuing the mini skirt. In fact, tomorrow I may just don my shortest skirt as a fuck-you to What Not to Wear and to the 35-year-old hags who ruin it for the rest of us. Whoa. Okay. Sorry. I’m a little on edge. I’ve never been a big fan of birthdays. In fact, as I get older they get easier … such has been my hatred for birthdays historically.

Some people as they get older say things like “I’ve never felt younger.” Mostly, I think that’s bullshit. But … who am I to judge? I certainly don’t feel younger than I ever have. I’m glad to report, though, I don’t feel much older either.

I’ve always needed eight to nine hours of sleep. Always found Matlock, Diagnosis Murder, and Murder, She Wrote oddly riveting and the elderly protagonists sympathetic. Always been fond of naps. Always thought Ensure was rather tasty. Shit, I used to come home from high school and watch Bob Ross to unwind. (True story.) In short, I’ve always been a little old lady in a young person’s bod.

But wait. It gets weirder. Physically, I am every bit the pre-pre-middle aged hottie with a theoretically functional womb who you imagine when you envision the minx who writes these posts. In most other ways, though, I am a teenage boy. I’ve mentioned this before, but every day it becomes more true.

This morning I saw some penis graffiti in the park. Did I report it to the authorities? No. Did I try to wipe it off? No. Did I look away in disgust and mutter “Kids!” under my breath? Once again, no. I snapped a pic for my blog instead. (You’re welcome.)

Yesterday, I laughed harder at the vagina jokes in Superbad than my date—purportedly a man (and, therefore, a former teenage boy), though I have no definitive confirmation of this. (Kevin, if there is someone who can vouch for your junk, let me know. I’m happy to amend this post. No moms or ex-girlfriends, please.)

[Ed. On further reflection, I'm not sure who would have been able to verify Kevin's junk other than moms and ex-girlfriends. In any case, verification was not forthcoming.]

Hmm. I forgot where I was going with this. Perhaps dementia is setting in already.

I still have over 30 hours until I’m officially 35, but I doubt I will feel much different (except, hopefully, a little more drunk). I don’t think I’ll be acting (or dressing) dramatically different. The blog won’t be any funnier or better, and I shan’t be any more wise or any less sophomoric, I wouldn’t expect.

You can check back to be sure, though, if you still believe in the magical power of 35. Yet another bubble that I’m more than happy to burst.

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A friend of mine recently sent me a link to a blog, and this innocent enough act it seems may become my undoing. I’m sure she didn’t intend it to be so because a) she sends me funny links all the time, none of which have undone me to date, b) she’s cute, smart, and has a hot, 25-year-old boyfriend (did I mention he’s French?) and a Copley-facing window cube, so practically and karmically it doesn’t make any sense for her to even desire my undoing never mind plan and enact a scheme aimed at such a thing, and c) things like this always come in threes, have you noticed? For the record, I’m not at all paranoid nor am I myself conniving and currently plotting the undoing of someone. [Ed. Complete rubbish…I'm actually known among my friends for being rather paranoid.] In any case, I’m pretty sure she’s not out to get me.

This doesn’t change the fact that for the first time in my lonely, internet-laden life, I’ve developed a somewhat sizable crush on a fellow blogger. How do I know it’s a crush and not merely admiration for the English language crafted into Heavenly form? Good question.

1. I have been painstakingly reading his archive of posts. No mere thing like work can prevent me from my goal of memorizing each and every word by next Tuesday at 11:52. Not even a post containing a call plea for pictures of bare boobies (yes, he called them boobies) has deterred me.
2. “… the English language crafted into Heavenly form” ?!? After reading so much of this guy’s writing, I’m beginning to write like him … only without all the big words and literary allusions. I mean, up until one second from now I haven’t said fuck once in this post!
3. While walking my dogs in the park recently, I noticed a pale, bald guy curled up in the fetal position on a particularly inviting patch of grass. When I ran over and said, “Derek, is that you?!?” (even though I know from reading 11 months of posts thus far that Derek lives in Toronto), the guy who wasn’t Derek said, “WTF, lady?” That’s not the disturbing part. I replied, “Sorry, I thought you were my boyfriend, Derek.” NO, that’s not the part that means I have a crush problem. Saying “my boyfriend, Derek” gave me a mild butterfly (even though I know perfectly well that my beloved’s name is not Derek). You may now be horrified.

Okay, okay. That last one isn’t true, but seeing a man curled up in the fetal position while walking my dogs recently gave me the inspiration for number 3 … which, I think we can all agree, is almost as bad.

In the final analysis, none of this matters. (I’m sorry. I’ve always wanted to say that.) Derek is probably in the very near future moving to Japan to follow a girl he’s been on two dates with, which I find both incredibly sad and romantic at the same time. (Also, he apparently has a thing for Asian chicks, and I’m about as un-Asian as you can be, while still holding the Asians in high regard and bearing no prejudice towards them at all.)

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