The joys of womanhood

So, I used to be pretty cool. Or at least I thought I was. I had a small fan club of devout followers- stalkers- whatever you want to call them. Most of them I knew on a first name basis, they were people I hung out with once in a while, swiped their newspapers now and again, stuff like that; others, to this day, I still have no clue where to serve the papers… or whom to address them to. That was the era before home surveillance. Now a days, there’s a camera on everything. Hidden cameras, nanny cameras, spy cameras, perv. Cameras, hell, these days you can fit a camera just about anywhere. It doesn’t bother me like it does some. I just look at it as I am never really alone, so I've just got to mind my p’s and q’s, do the right thing, make sure my socks match and watch what direction I am facing when I gotta go in after a wedgie. That’s not so bad. After having children and losing any and all privacy I ever thought I had, it’s really not that much more of an invasion.

But if you're the sort of person who really likes their privacy… personal space… “me time”… then I do not recommend having children. It all begins in the doctor’s office, for us ladies, anyway, when some friendly but entirely too forward obstetrician rolls their little spinney stool around to the foot of your bed, throws up your gown like a farmer throws cracked corn to his chickens, and along with it, all expectations you had of them practicing any “bedside manner”, and you feel a light breeze- way further north than you normally feel a breeze, followed by a slowly building warm spot- ok- a freaking tractor beam of heat spotlighting your most holiest of holys. It is then that you realize the breeze was the new introduction of atmosphere to a planet (I wont say it) which usually is void of both air and light… and the ‘hot spot’ is the head lamp- fog lights- whatever battery operated lazier pointer combo flashlight and stylus pen all rolled into one that the doctor was using to explore your dark side at point blank range. Now, it isn't polite to stare, but the urge may arise at this time to say something stupid, like I did the first time I was in this awkward, vulnerable position. Feeling a little self conscious, I can remember wanting to ask the nurse how long the doctor between my legs could stay down there before coming up for air, and talked myself out of it. Too presumptuous of me- after all, this is a trained professional (I hope) and it is very possible, that of all the artillery, and medieval looking hardware he took down there with him, one of those tubes, he very likely, could be breathing through. So as awkward as it may be, you must lace your fingers atop your paper towel wrapped torso, stare up at the kitten poster on the ceiling, and wait. Wait for what? I don't know, maybe for my dignity no show up…. And pay the tab for my doctor visit.

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