If you think shopping for a bathing suit is humiliating, try this on for size.
You’re lying on a hospital examining table with a camera wand thingy stuck way up in your Lady Parts while the technician attempting to photograph the walls of your Va-Jay-Jay searches fruitlessly for a clear image.
Lots of scintillating conversation topics arise while someone is probing your Garden of Eden with a rod masquerading as a medical device. Like for instance, the weather. In Southern California, that can only go so far:
Girl With Wand [staring at ultrasound screen]: How’s the weather out there?
Me: Sunny and 72.
G.W.W.: Cool. Same as it was yesterday.
There was a time when lying prone while someone jiggled a device in your Hoo-Ha was actually a lot of fun. Especially if that someone was your boyfriend/partner/hubby/spouse/gigolo. This time, it was tedious and annoying:
[20 LONG minutes after the weather conversation]:
Me: Are you finding what you needed in there?
G.W.W. [mildly panicked]: Uh, I can’t seem to get a clear image [probes frantically].
Me: Well, since this isn’t working, I would suggest it’s time for Plan B.
Plan B involved G.W.W. disclosing that we were using “an outdated machine.” And that there was a “newer machine” next door. Two minutes later, the bizarre tableau resumed in the adjacent room with a more modern machine, this time with a wand wrapped in plastic. Hmm…wonder why the first one had no protective covering?
[10 minutes into my coupling with said Newer Machine]:
Me: So, how long have you worked in healthcare?
G.W.W. [staring at ultrasound screen]: Six months.
Me [panicked but masking it well]: What did you do before?
G.W.W. [still staring at screen]: I was in sales.
Me: Pharmaceutical sales?
G.W.W. [looking at me sheepishly]: No, I sold tractors.
A vision of her in a John Deere trucker hat was all it took for me to want to wrestle the probe from her hands and self-administer the pelvic ultrasound. She finished before I could do my best Mrs. Peel and somersault off the table, looking chic but tough wearing nothing but an open-backed hospital gown.
Two days later, I was in the doctor’s office with a bladder infection.
Shopping for bathing suits can be traumatic, no doubt about it. But I would argue that getting your Pleasure Palace photographed by a former tractor salesperson is right up there. So to speak.