There was something poetic about my annual visit to the OBGYN this year. I know it's hard to believe there would be anything poetic about this most intimately invasive examination. But like so many doctors, this one runs behind routinely so much so I consider every visit whether it would be worth trying a new doctor. It's not. I like her. So I pack a book and expect delays, just like flying through DFW. Last week, I brought a book by Brene Brown. We're reading it in a book study at work. Doesn't matter which one it is, they are all grounded in the same major theme: vulnerability. For a brief moment, I was encouraged as my reading was interrupted two pages in, and a nurse brought me back for a temperature, weight, and blood pressure check. I was escorted to the room where I would strip down to adult sized paper doll clothes. You know the ones; the vest with no buttons or snaps or closures, made from the same crepe-like paper as the streamers you hang across the room at a party. Only my vest was not of celebratory colors. It was sterile, medical pale blue, almost white. It matched perfectly with my crepe wraparound skirt. You know, the almost square tablecloth-like sheet. I can never tell which direction to wrap it around. Heck it doesn't even wrap around unless you're smaller than a size 8, I'm thinking. I usually give up and just lay it across my lap like the tablecloth it resembles, leaving just enough space between the bottom of my vest and the flattened part of my ass on the exam table to allow an uncomfortable draft from the a/c. I leave my flip flops on. Not sure why, maybe to keep at least the bottom of my feet from being cold. My ass and my soles, the only warm parts left in my body. And when I'm finally settled- settled but not comfortable- I crack my book again, because I know there's more waiting. "To love at all is to be vulnerable," Brene says, and I am reminded why I'm there even though I hate every minute of this annual ritual. I love myself.
