It’s self-care season, meaning, it’s a round robin of doctor appointments to make sure all is in working order, like an annual tune-up for your car.
Of course, as with anything, it comes with a downside. Prodding and pushing, pressing and squeezing. My favorite is when the dermatologist dons what looks like, a miner’s hat, while you’re butt naked on the table.
“See anything Doc?’
“Nope…all looks okie-dokie to me.”
Yes, he said that, but I’ve known him for so long I would never take offense, especially after the bag of samples he always gives me on the way out.
I’ve already discussed in my essay, Pap Text, how inappropriate the medical community can be. One of my favorite tales is when a doctor who, because I’m so neurotically well-mannered, will remain nameless, got a phone call during a rectal exam returning to ask…”now, where were we?”
“Well, your finger was up my rear like a puppeteer, but feel free to move on.”
The alternative? Roll the dice hoping nothing fatal is lurking, very appealing to my boobs who, after a recent mammogram, still resemble pressed hams.
But I’m from Connecticut where we just didn’t do that, spring cleaning each body part, that way, if someone kicks your tires, they’ll sigh and say, now that’s what I call a great set a’ treads.