I had my yearly pap exam this week. Although far from one of my favorite activities, I quite like my doctor. I’ve gone to Doctor L. for six or seven years now. She is this tiny energetic woman, under five feet, so it is a bit like being examined by a wayward Keebler elf. This may sound disturbing, but for some reason it is oddly comforting for me.
I am laying on the table making small talk trying to act like my labia isn’t just hanging out when the following conversation takes place.
Doctor L: So are you still married to Bob?
Doctor L: And he’s your only sexual partner?
I love this question because it implies that Doctor L thinks I am the kind of woman capable of having wild passionate affairs with men named Sven instead of being a writer who spends way too much time wearing sweatpants, staring off into space and laughing at my own jokes. Granted, I’m pretty sure she has to ask this question as a part of a clinical interview to evaluate my risks, I still like to imagine that she sees me as a wanton woman.
Me: Yep, it might sound boring, but he’s still the only one.
Doctor L: (Patting me on the knee) Don’t worry, if it gets dull make him wear a hat and call him cowboy.
This is my naughty advice for the week- you can still be a nice girl, you just make him wear a hat.
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