Let's all just consider this post a Public Service Announcement, shall we? Because, well, you'll see. I learned a lesson yesterday, and I felt like I needed to pass it along, no matter how embarrassing it is to me. 

So I had to go see the lady doctor yesterday. She is also a lady doctor, but I don't refer to her as a lady doctor because of her gender. She looks at ladies and their bits.

AS you  may have guessed, I am not very good at just callings things by their proper names. This actually has something to do with my story.

At any rate, I had to call and make the appointment, which was embarrassing enough because I had to describe the problem to a receptionist, and then I had to go in and see the doctor for something which was completely avoidable and actually caused by an allergy to fabric softener.

But that is neither here nor there.

I got in and was taken to the back, where I had to explain the issue to a nurse. "It's been going on for about two months." I said.

"WHAT?" she said.

Yep, I let these things go a while, probably because I don't enjoy talking about my lady bits. Then she started asking questions, using scientific words for body parts.

That's right around the time I turned red and started giggling. I firmly believe in using fun words to talk about the Southern regions. Like hoo-hoo or noonie. Or talking about it as if it were a geological phenomenon, rather than a physical one, using the points of the compass as a reference. 

At any rate, I feel like the nurse just didn't get me.

She then told me to disrobe from the waist down and sit up on the table, and then left. So I'm sitting there, in my full Donald Duck regalia, for around 15 minutes. That doesn't seem like a long time, but when you're sitting there with your business barely covered by a thin sheet and you're trying to gauge how much time it would take you to grab your pants and shoes in an emergency, and trying to decide which you'd get if there was a fire (don't worry, I had on a really long shirt....I totally would've gone for shoes), it seems like forever.

Finally, the doctor came in and asked me to describe my symptoms. However, I was still in my Donald Duck outfit and kind of a giggly mess, and I developed a mental block.

It's not that I don't know the proper terms for things down there. Let's be quite clear on that. I do know what's going on below my equator. I just prefer to not ever, ever, ever, ever say the right words because they are icky and I blush heavily if I ever say them.

So we have our discussion and she then has me lay down so she can do an exam. Ladies, you know how this goes. It is, quite possibly, the most uncomfortable position one can be in, plus someone is prodding around down there, trying to have a normal conversation while he or she has his hand all up in your whatnot.

This is the point where I feel like I lost all street cred with my doctor.

She's asking me if it hurts in certain places and she gets to the...well...upper area and says, "How about here?"

Now, I should've just said no and let her move on. But I had to be an idiot, so I said, "You mean the sticky-outy part?"

I'll give you a minute.

Yes, yes, yes, yes. I know. I KNOW. I just couldn't bring myself to say it. At any rate, the doctor straightens up and looks at me and says, "That sticky-outy part is called a (I'll let you fill in the blank for yourself, I still can't say it)." And then she laughed a little bit.

She said it as if I didn't know the word.

I'm pretty sure she left the room and laughed a little more. Or even a lot more. I just pulled up my drawers and hightailed it to my car.

Where I called my husband and told him my story, so he could laugh, too.

And he did.

Ugh.

The lesson I learned? Use grown-up words or your doctor will laugh at you. Also, always wear a long shirt to the lady doctor because if there's a fire, you'll be able to run out of the building faster if you have your shoes than all of those suckers who decide to go with pants.