Letters To My Younger Self I: Don’t Be So Afraid of the Gynecologist

I’ve never been, but I’ve heard that every creative writing class in the history of ever has you write a letter to your younger self.  Which is a good idea in theory, but bad in practice.  Of course our younger selves could have used some adult advice, but:

a – my younger self would never have listened because she already knew everything, and
b – most people’s advice is lifted directly from those toxically useless Chicken Soup books and therefore sucks.

Regardless, there are still moments of my life where I think back and say to myself, “Man, Self, you really could have used this information when you were younger.  Why didn’t anyone tell you? ? ”

Why indeed.  In consideration of both my pathetic younger self and the possibility of future time travel/conscious reincarnation, I’ve begun creating Letters to My Younger Self.

Letters To My Younger Self I: Don’t Be So Afraid of the Gynecologist

Dear Younger Self,

I know that when you took a look at your physical form for soccer, you blanched at the “Pelvis/Genitals” portion.  Your doctor had to check that box (term which you are probably not old enough to hee! at, even in this completely appropriate context) somehow, and you could not fathom the levels of humiliation that would be necessary to achieve a clean bill of health.

Well, yeah…your first visit to the gynecologist is going to be pretty bad.  It’s odd to have your first fingerbang experience administered by a middle-aged black woman (unless you’re into that sort of thing, which you are not) who whistles and says “Baby, you tight!”  But crotch health is not to be ignored, and being embarrassed at Planned Parenthood is practically a requirement for completing puberty.

(By the way, wasn’t it funny when Patty Weber said “poverty” instead of “puberty” in Human Sexuality class?  Ha!)

Going to the gynecologist gets easier.  Not more fun or at all convenient, but easier.  Soon you won’t even feel like barfing when they ask you to “scoot down…no, farther…farther…you know, just hang your butt off the table, okay?,” and you’ll learn that no one is a fan of jokes when they’re giving out breast exams.


Your Older Self

PS – If your grandmother ever quilts like this, she’ll probably want you to euthanize her.  Not take her to parties.  Which you’ll certainly consider.

Insanity Quilt

About erineph

I'm Erin. I have tattoos and more than one cat. I am an office drone, a music writer, and an erstwhile bartender. I am a cook in the bedroom and a whore in the kitchen. Things I enjoy include but are not limited to zombies, burritos, Cthulhu, Kurt Vonnegut, Keith Richards, accordions, perfumery, and wearing fat pants in the privacy of my own home.
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