If you're a boy you might want to skip this one....

Because it is about going to the Lady Doctor. I don't know any ladies who don't dread this annual visit...here are my theories as to why:

First, 89% of the waiting room is really, really pregnant and I'm always terrified one of them will go into labor at any second.

Second, all the magazines have to do with parenting and babies, two subjects that still terrify me at this point in my life.

Third, no matter how many anti-anxiety meds I take beforehand, there is some sort of force that negates their effectiveness from the second I walk in the door.

Fourth, they weigh you.

After this trauma, you are asked to pee in a cup. WITH YOUR NAME ON IT. Then you have to walk out of the bathroom holding your clear pee-cup with your name on it, a walk of shame much more embarrassing than the college version.

You are then sometimes asked to tell the nurse what other prescription drugs you are taking, VERBALLY, and I would really prefer that the other three patients and five nurses within earshot not know this information.

After this, you are led to the room of ultimate humiliation and scariness. You are handed a smock that only comes down to your waist and instructed to undress completely and put it on "open side in front." To cover your other lady parts, there is simply a huge sheet resembling the largest paper towel ever to use as a blanket.

Did I mention it's always FREEZING in the room of ultimate humiliation and scariness?

Then....you wait. There are not even baby or parenting magazines to distract you, so all you have to do is try not to stare at the scary posters on the wall of female anatomy, STD pamphlets, and the frightening, unfamiliar, and extremely sharp metal objects that will soon be inserted up your vagina. I recommend mentally "going to your happy place" during this time, although I have never been able to achieve this myself.

Then your doctor comes in and makes small talk about the weather, your job, etc. and you try to answer without thinking about the fact that he/she is feeling up your breasts and sticking things inside of your stuff, aka, how you are basically being medically molested.

FINALLY it's over. You are allowed to dress and slink out, trying not to make eye contact with the next poor girl coming in as you are going out, or at least not look too traumatized. I always say a silent prayer for her, as I know exactly how she's feeling and what is in store for her. Poor soul.