Observations (No Pants Edition)

Nonfiction

Melinda Smith

Ipark, go into the building, then run back to my car, remembering the text from the doctor’s office about mandatory masks. I kick myself for the tiny hesitancy to wear a mask because it makes me look old. I’m self-conscious about the wrinkles around my eyes, despite the fact that in my mind I am one of those women who says I don’t care how old I am, I am just happy to have this gift of life.

I put on the mask and wait for the elevator. The light for the lobby floor is lit, but the doors take forever to open. I step in and hold the door for an older man. Although, now that I think about it, who knows? Maybe he’s twenty and just has eye wrinkles? No, he’s older. It’s not just his skin and his gray hair. It’s the way he presses the button for the second floor and, when it doesn’t light up, chuckles and says “guess you have to press it like a man.”

Being one who both understands the difficulty of changing with the times but is also a little obstinate, I say, “or like a girl. I hit pretty hard.” I smile, the social construct that says this is a joke, not a threat to hit you, but who can see under this mask? All my smile does is bring out the damn eye wrinkles. He says nothing. Punk kid, he’s probably thinking.

The waiting room at the gynecologist tries so hard for zen. They all do. Lavender walls with butterflies-and-or-birds. This one has a statue of a mother with her child. She looks at me with her lack of eye wrinkles and says, see? Isn’t all this worth it? The miracle of children. I tell her I’ll keep that in mind when I’m on the exam table in stirrups.

Linda Ronstadt is playing in the exam room. You’re No Good. Her voice is so damn smooth. More calming than butterflies-slash-birds. The assistant takes my blood pressure, which is—no surprise—high. I’m just nervous, I say, apologizing to this woman who isn’t asking for an explanation. What could make me nervous? Is it the fact that I’m here because maybe erratic periods mean fibroids or early menopause? Or maybe it’s because in a moment I’ll be asked to undress only from the waist down (which is definitely not a good look, especially because I leave my socks on. Why do they keep these offices so cold?). Or maybe I’m nervous because I’ll have to prop my legs up and scooch down.

Farther, farther, scoot your wide open crotch right up to my face, yes, like I’m going to wear you like a hat. Farther. What is he, going spelunking?

Smooth Criminal plays. Did they ever figure out what happened to Annie? Seems irresponsible to just sing about it. Never mind, here comes the doctor. And because I’m socialized as a woman, I immediately begin apologizing for even being there. It’s probably nothing, I’m being silly, you know, the whole works. To his credit, my doctor is great. Easy going, never makes me feel weird (and that’s something, given the whole spelunking thing).

He agrees there’s likely nothing wrong but offers to perform an ultrasound to be sure (he probably mistakes the extensive network of crow’s feet around my eyes as worry lines and doesn’t want me to have a heart attack). He puts on his climbing gear and head lamp. He squirts gel onto the ultrasound wand as looking for some hot stuff blasts from the speakers. Really, Becky up front needs to curate the playlist a little better. Her Pandora is getting cheeky. And oh my god how did I not even see that box pun a mile away?

Wow that ultrasound gel is cold. I wish my crotch could wear socks. “There,” he says, pointing to various blobs that look like other various blobs. “Your ovaries look normal.” I suppress any offense. Normal, I remind myself, is a good thing when a doctor says it. Put the overachieving away for god’s sake. Then I start to wonder. How can he even tell what’s what? It’s like trying to find shapes in TV static. I imagine a room full of med school students staring up at a screen during a lecture. The professor asks what they see. The students squint like they’re looking at one of those images that suddenly become 3D out of nowhere. A couple of them see Jesus. Then the professor teaches them which blobs are good and which are cause for concern. I apologize a few more times for existing, then put on my pants.

Mr. Old Fashioned isn’t in the elevator when I leave. I walk, squishy underwear and all, to the car. How much gel do they need to use, anyway? I keep my mask on and I look in the mirror. Yep, I’m 75 from the nose up. But who cares? My uterus is normal! I turn on the radio and drive home to Gloria Estefan.