Mmmkay, ladies. This one’s for you.
Ever just sat in the office of the doc that spelunks your lady cave (while they took forever to see you) and look around?
Thumb through their reading material?
Annoy fellow patients?
Ever analyze the décor?
And ever notice how effing sneaky their setups are? If you’re like me, and they take approximately pi billion years before they actually see you (even though you arrived early and even though you’d be most likely be sentenced to extra snatch torture had you been the tardy one), you might have glanced around and gathered this already. To be honest, a few days ago was the first time ever that I’ve spent any time doing that, much less reaching this conclusion. My phone’s web wasn’t loading and their magazines were all either outdated or just sucked. So, as I waited for my annual oil check, I had this realization. Granted, it happened via an initially one sided conversation I was carrying on with a buddy across the country (to be fair, I was texting him at 5 A.M. his time as I wearily scanned the waiting room optically hunting Waldo style for anything to mentally entertain myself with while they wasted another half hour of my life). Prospects seemed bleak at first. Mood lighting. Pier 1 furniture. Mood music. This felt like more like a massage parlor than your run of the mill on-deck-for-uteral-brutalization vestibule. Except with maybe a more collegiate café vibe – especially with that Nick Drake lite music blaring a few decibels too loudly.
Then, the see-spheres in my skull focused in on this gem:
That was when the beginnings of my solitary text machine gun musings set off:
“Doctor’s office,” I began to my poor, unassuming, still asleep pal, “I bet they never light that candle on that wall mirror. Although with this ‘music to eff to’ playlist they totes should,” That was when the following epiphany dawned on me, which I also shared:
“I get it! This is the vagina doctor, after all. They’re trying to trick lady bodies into being ready to be speculumly invaded with this music. It’s like the auditory version of porn mags at the jizz bank. Bastards!” He finally awoke to share my general mistrust of these sneaky miscreants, noting that it looked like the kinda place where the professional in question would “liberally pepper the conversation with words like ‘aura’.” Which is funny, because he’s right: I later recalled that the last snatch doctor I went to (and left) was indeed like that.
Well, it wasn’t till we started anthropomorphizing it.
And don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind those terms when we’re working on the opposite side of my body. But let’s 86 the airy fairy terms from my nether entry. Funny enough, though, the gyn-design and my ex-profesh prober of muffins weren’t the only spiritual-jargon sneakiness happening to my naked body. Life found a way to usher these secrets of the spirit world into me (albeit not via my vagina – but brain) that afternoon. ’cause when I scheduled a rubdown over at Massage Envy, I entered the establishment to laugh a bit at how familiar the decor looked from that morning. But the lady-doc similarities wouldn’t end there. Because my regular masseuse was busy, and when I got “Valentina” instead, I also got a whole dissertation – which I didn’t hate – on “opening my third eye”.
But, ya know, maybe that’s ’cause she wasn’t opening my fourth one by force when she said.
Cuntext Context is everything.