* "That's a good, healthy, small, nonpregnant uterus. Mmm-hmm."
* "You have a beautiful, pink cervix! Do you want to take a look?"
Granted, we smashing, single lasses are always happy to hear "nonpregnant uterus." However, this was after she lit the "Good Feelings" candle. Her office was very new-agey, actually. Flimsy little mobiles with swans, a poster of a woman with a masectomy on the wall who had tattooed a Phoenix over the scar, Nelson Mandela quotes. Interesting, sure, but I am not about to hop on the old take-a-look-at-your-innards boat and sail around the world. You'll all rest assured, though, that I have "dense, youthful breasts." Ahhh, it was like I was in an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel.
Men have it inexplicably easy in this department. Ain't nobody pryin' on up in your shit, using clamps and brushes, mirrors and lights, groping and poking. Somebody just yanks on your chain and you have to cough. Big friggin' whoop. (One day, I will disclose my ever-developing theory that ob/gyn's were created to keep women's sexuality "in check." Since it is still in the works, I will keep you posted)
So, my mom disputes the theory that emotions can be stored in your muscles. My mom also thinks that seeing a shrink is not necessary. I wonder if these two things can be linked?
I want a salad.