I see my gynae socially, and it's bad

 

I see my gynae socially, and it's bad
8 February 2014

Certain people, belong in certain boxes.  You see them in certain environments.  Due to a certain set of circumstances.  And that is most certainly the way it should stay.

I would find it odd to bump into one of my kids’ school teachers at a club or a bar.  Not that they aren’t allowed to go there, or have a social life, it would just feel strange.  Mainly as that is not the way I picture them in my head.  Most of them are beyond the age of clubbing in any rate.  Well so am I.  But you get my point.  They belong in the school box.  The one reserved for that purpose.  They dress a certain way and speak about certain topics – namely education and my kids’ behaviour – either good or bad.  Seeing them somewhere else feels peculiar.  It is equally odd to see my favourite cashier at Pick ‘n Pay, in a different place, not wearing her standard work uniform.

And I know this seems small minded of me.  And putting people in boxes is a really bad idea. 

People are multi-faceted.  And are able to have a multitude of interests, not just the obvious one.

However, this boxing habit of ours, gives me a certain measure of comfort.  It’s soothing. 

But here’s the problem – my gynaecologist, is a good friend, of a very good friend of mine.  And occasionally, I bump into him socially.  This is NOT a good thing.  In fact, it’s rather bad.

I am always overcome with the feeling that he won’t recognise me.  Cause let’s be honest – he doesn’t really ever focus on my face.  Faces aren’t his area of expertise, per se.

Instead he rather focuses on areas of my anatomy, I really wish he didn’t.

A gynaecological visit is an invasion.  Not the most pleasant experience, mostly due to the nature of the visit.  Or should I rather say, due to the specific biological, anatomical field that it requires investigation of.  Far too much probing and prodding.  And it generally leaves one feeling a bit vulnerable.  Terribly exposed.  Because you are.

And because of this, I put the whole thing into a box (no pun intended).  It’s a fifteen to thirty minute box of must-endure-and-just-get-through-never-to-think-of-again-until-the-same-time-next-year.  It only belongs into that one thirty minute slice of time.  Once a year.

Therefore bumping into my gynae at a birthday party is quite simply not my best. 

I find myself tugging on my clothes, fighting the desire to disrobe, as I’m usually requested to do in his presence, all whilst simultaneously trying to avoid eye contact.  Eventually giving up, getting it over and done with, and simply going over and making small talk.

He was at the birth of two of my kids.  Yip, he’s gone places no man other than my husband should.

And so after a brief “How’re you doing?”.  And a quick run-down of how big my kids now are, I tend to scuttle off.  Cringing.  It’s actually hard to make small talk with someone, when your only common ground is your vajayjay. 

My group of girlfriends find this very funny.  I’m sure you can imagine.  Whenever I bump into him, they’re around, and they know my history with him.  They tease me mercilessly.  Once again, I’m sure you can imagine. 

A few years ago, we arranged a mass exodus, of all of our friends, as well as a few friends of friends, to the little town of Sutherland.  We booked out the entire hotel, as well as most of the guest houses in town.  We arranged large scale catering for all of us, as well as a personalised guided tour of the SALT telescope. 

It was a much anticipated weekend.  A weekend preceded by a visit to my gynaecologist on the Thursday.  And by Friday I was still going, “Yay!  Tick!  At least that’s now done, for a whole year long.”

Imagine my surprising bumping into him on the Friday.  And realising that I would be in his vicinity for the entire weekend.  To be honest, it was a bit of a low point.

But I’ve come to the conclusion, that next time I see him, I’m simply going to walk up to him immediately, look him straight in the eye, and say,

“Dokter ek het geen Moemf-kwale nie.  Lekker man!  Lekker!”

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