GyNO Thank You

I like my gynecologist, at least as much as a woman can like a man who tells her medical future by ramming his fingers up her inside parts while telling her to please relax her stomach muscles. He's a nice man with kind eyes. He takes his time to answer my questions, and he actually listens when I'm talking to him. However, despite the many brownie points I give him for his excellent bedside manner, a trip to see him still entails all the things I hate about going to a gyno appointment.

First off, I hate the fact that I have to get on the scale when I'm really at the hospital to get something checked that has nothing to do with how fat or fit I am. I suppose the fact that I hate the scale has a lot to do with the fact that I am more fat than fit but, I digress. There is usually some chatty medial office technician rambling on and on in small talk language who I secretly wish had an actual zipper on her face that would close her mouth. After suffering the humiliation of the scale and a quick check of my blood pressure, it's on to the real fun in the examination room.

After further questions about why I'm there and when was the first day of my last period, the medical assistant tells me to further embarrass myself and possibly my gyno, by taking off all my clothes and putting on the pretty hospital gown with the gaping hole in the back just in case one wasn't suffering from enough chagrin already. During the disrobing process I find myself doing what I'm sure many other women do; I fold up my clothes leaving them in a neat pile on the chair then fold my bra and panties to the tiniest proportions possible and hide them between my top and pants. I don't really know why this is the protocol since the person I'm visiting is about to see parts of me I haven't even seen before. It's just some unspoken rule amongst women that undies are not to be left in plain sight even if one is clothed in a very unflattering hospital gown.

It seems as if the wait for the doctor is either too long or too short. Either I'm sitting on the examination table, cold and uncomfortable, reading a Ladies Home Journal from 1991 with Jane Seymour dressed as Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman on the cover OR the gyno knocks on the door and enters just as I'm bent over with my soon to be hidden panties around my ankles. Of course it is also baffling why I jump and try to cover up when his entry precedes me getting on the gown considering the fact that I'm going to bare all in the near future. I sit on the table while we talk about any concerns I may have. After the niceties, the dreaded examination begins. It starts with about three palms full of lube followed by a speculum which I believe is an ancient Greek word for "evil instrument of torture made expressly for women".

The doctor gets a sample of what's happening with my innards, then helps me sit up and remove my feet from the stirrups. Now, when I was a young, pre-OB girl, I thought of stirrups as those awful looking leggings with straps for one's feet. Now I've come to think of them as an unfortunate yet necessary evil. Surely these things were created by a man because anyone who has had to put her feet in a pair would know the deal. Why don't stirrups move to the sides the way my feet move to the sides? They aren't really supporting my legs if I'm using my toes to grip the sides of the stirrups in an effort to avoid falling off the table. Oh, the horror!

After the exam, my gyno tells me I can get dressed and open the door when I'm finished so he can come back in and finish speaking with me. He hands me a box of tiny ass tissues that are almost too small to wipe a newborn baby's nose so I can clean up the 64 ounces of goo he used on me before the examination. Who's idea was it to use the smallest tissues known to man? Frankly, after an appointment with the gyno, I need a roll of soft ply paper towels to get myself to my original state. I wonder why he is even bothering to leave the room at all. The conversation started with me wearing that stupid gown so there's no reason why it can't end with me donning the same thing. I can't imagine that it's for modesty because a man who just had his fingers on my cervix should certainly not be embarrassed about chatting with me further while I'm wearing an open in the back gown. Maybe it's just me, but I doubt it.

All told, a trip to my gyno or any other gyno can be a trying experience. It is one thing I'm glad I only have to endure once every other year, sort of like smog checks. At least with those, I get a certificate. Happy paping.

Lent Lament

Yesterday I ate a small loaf of sourdough bread slathered in butter, three white chocolate chip cookies, and some brandy fried chicken that had been cooked in a vat of grease. And, while I woke up with heartburn, I have to say it was worth it. All of those foods were a way for me to enjoy my very own Fat Tuesday.

Every year for the past three or four years I've considered observing Lent and each year I manage to forget all about it until about midway through when I hear someone mention it. At that point, I shrug it off and make a mental note to try again next year. Now that I've finally caught it on time, I feel good about my decision to make a personal sacrifice but I'm only 8.5 hours in and I miss my bread, rice, potatoes, and tortillas. I'm depressed about the idea of withdrawal headaches from a lack of carbs, having to constantly remind myself that I can't eat one thing or another, and the chore of having to learn a bunch of new recipes that don't require the very things I love to eat most. I am sad that I may have to refrain from eating out some of the time because the temptation may be too great. Or, I'll be that one annoying person at the table who doesn't eat this or that thing which may encompass the entire meal. I like to think of it as carb quarantine.

Even though I'm feeling more than a bit whiny about my undertaking, I'm also excited. I am challenging my mind and body and improving my spiritual connection. And, if I'm fortunate, I'll also be shaving off a few inches from the spare tire I've been developing over the past few years. Closer to God, closer to my weight loss goal; both seem well worth the sacrifice my taste buds will experience. So, despite my complaining, I know I am doing something good for myself. In the meantime, I'll close my eyes at night and dream of pancakes, a variety of rice dishes, and a mountain of hot french fries covered in delicious salty goodness all while reflecting on the sacrifices made on my behalf. One down, forty five more to go.

Wear Me Down Love

"Well there's a rose in a fisted glove. And the eagle flies with the dove. And if you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with." When that song comes on the radio, I find myself humming along and tapping my toes but it isn't because I agree. Frankly, it is because the music is great and the melody is catchy but in my mind, the message is terrible. As a thirty something year old woman, I, and many women I know in my age group, have received the recommendation to rethink our real or imagined list of attributes for men we want. For some, the list goes from containing things like integrity, intelligence, stability, and attractiveness to "have pulse, will travel" due to a lack of viable choices. And while I do understand stripping what one wants to the bare minimum, I don't believe long periods of singlehood are enough to convince me to lower my standards.

I'm reminded of the many episodes of Family Matters I watched in which Urkel would be the recipient of an act of kindness granted by Laura Winslow. Instead of being grateful, he'd simply say, "I'm wearing you down, Baby"! And even though she may have eventually realized she wanted Urkel, I have to say that I am nobody's Laura Winslow. If a man is missing the core qualities I'm looking for, no amount of time, money, energy, kind acts, or conversation is going to make him a viable candidate. I've had men pushed on me in the past by others who insist that being with someone who is "a little bit off" but a nice man overall is better than being single but I can't manage to see how I could live with myself or continue to fake feelings for someone who I don't even want to touch my elbow.

I do agree that one's standards shouldn't be set so high as to prevent any fallible human being from reaching viable choice status, however, I also don't think we should ultimately give up what we want all for the sake of saying we have someone. I've never just wanted someone. I want THE one and refuse to settle for less. Besides, I've tried the Urkel route and frankly, it isn't worth the effort and usually leads to Urkel getting his feelings hurt when he realizes I never really liked him in the first place.

So, to save myself and Urkel, I remain single for the time being. I want a love that builds upon the good foundation that has already been set for my life. I don't want to be with someone I don't like simply because he asked enough times for me to finally say yes out of aggravation. I want a love that elevates me and not one that wears me down.

Bona Fide Black

Last week a co-worker who knows I'm not the most experimental with my food asked me if I wanted to try some chicken feet. Frowning, I declined. Seeing the look on my face, he assured me that I'd indeed enjoy them "because they taste just like pig feet". Now, I'm sure to many his statement is no big deal. Many would think he was simply making a comparison comment in order to make me feel better about indulging in a plate of toes. However, I read what he didn't say, "Malikka, I'm sure you'll love these chicken feet since your people are such fans of pig feet". I mean, I'm black so OF COURSE I must love a big ole' plate of feet, right?

After correcting his misconception of black people and our eating habits with my well-rehearsed "Just because I'm black doesn't mean I..." speech, I reflected on how old these kinds of conversations get. I know that preconceived notions based on nothingness will always exist. I'm guilty of a few and I've certainly been the victim of many. However, I feel like there should come a time in our lives when we start to think further than just what is in front of us. And while I know that all stereotypes are based in fact, the end result is usually so far from the original truth, it's completely ridiculous.

I, for example, am a black person who defies many stereotypes attached to people who look like me and unfortunately, there are many people around to continually remind me of how I deviate from what their limited minds have determined to be the truth. I am well read, articulate, unafraid of hard work, literate, a lover of the arts, and a student. I don't eat watermelon, haven't had kool-aid in years, and am well aware that "red" is not an actual flavor. I've never danced a jig or shucked a pea, and I most certainly DO NOT eat pig feet. However, I'm still as "black" as they come. From the ethnic beauty I possess by way of my round and wide nose, my kinky locs, my full lips, and my even fuller hips. But "blackness" isn't just about the way I look, what I eat, or the way I move. There's a certain "knowingness" and vibe that I believe to be innate based on our history on this planet. Our struggles and triumphs and our ability to take it all in stride is a true gift. And even though it is true that part of our make up consists of slang, talkin' shit, pimpin', hustlin', shuckin' and occasionally jiving, we are truly more than that. We are intellectuals. We are inventors. We write, we run, we protest. We are politicians, theologians, and parents. We contribute to this country daily with our talents. And in spite of all these things, some will still look at me and see nothing more than a watermelon eating, pea shucking, pig foot sucking, black chick.

The truth can sometimes be incredibly unattractive but it doesn't stop me from giving the speech. I will continue to give it until I'm out of breath because everyone needs to know that I, and everyone who looks like me, consist of more than what can be contained in a piece of pork. We are the things people think we are and none of those things simultaneously. And in all of our contradictions, we are bona fide.