Go see your gynecologist! Everybody*s doin it!
7:44 PM | 01-04-05
NOTE: If you are a male...it would be in your VERY best interest to NOT read this. I*m serious...trust me...ok?
So....today....I think....and felt..I became a woman. Don*t get me wrong...I*m still gonan squeel when i see something cute...still sleep with my blankie that i have had for 22 years....and watch disney movies. But, today for the very first time i went to the Ahem....(quiet) i went to the gynecologist!! AHHHHHHHHH...i know...some may be thinking (it*s about bloody time) others....and i would be in thos category..thinking(EWWW!!) Yah EWWWW is right....I*m not gonna get into details...but i gotta say i felt violated...and I*m not quite ready to talk about it. It was weird...and i was litterally fingered by a woman....and that is a very first for me..and will be the LAST till my bext appointment which is in a year...thank gawd!!!!!!!!! I just wanna say though...it*s a good decision to go...i know, MOST girls have goe as soona s they have sex or are 18...blah blah blah....i do things when I*m ready....or when it is in my best interest...and sometimes im just too lazy and i put it off...kinda liek homework...its my choice...so...whatever.I just hope that everyone knows the truth...it*s scary as hell....its uncomportable...100% all the time...and beleive me...you will say things that you wold never think you would...and you will be REALLY polite....watch, you*ll see. BUt, after it*s all over with...you can breath...and know...that you are safe, healthy, and responsible. SO, when you*re ready...do it...suck it up, calla close friend...and go. Giggle at the quiestions in the waiting room...be personal...and just go...it*s fun to learn the facts...fun to anticipate the wonderful affects of the pill (no zits, no period, no you dont gain 200 lbs!) and, good to know that you ARE a powerful, prepared, HOT ASS WOMAN!! WOOT! WOOT!
Later on..... Brandon sent me this....very cute....must READ!!
You met her a few months ago, and somehow she managed to seep into your subconscious like that "Suga how you get so fly" song. Just like you have no clue who the hell sings it, you don't know why she's there. But she is, whether you like it or not. You know her cell phone, her room phone. You can dial her Aunt Doreen's house in West Springfield (where she goes to do her laundry every two weeks) faster than you can peck-out 911. But she doesn't know.
Her screenname, that generic one with her first name followed by three to five random numbers or UMass, has its own category at the top of your buddy list. Not only do you know what a "Buddy Alert" is, you've rigged your computer to play "Fat Guy in a Little Coat" from "Tommy Boy" every time her screen name changes from gray to black. Then her away message comes down, and you have a decision to make. To IM or not to IM? These are the ridiculous games that you play on a daily basis. But she doesn't know.
She's it. All right, so maybe not "it" it. Not necessarily Ms. Right, but closer to Ms. Right-up-there-with-Anna-Kournikova-and-Lizzie-McGuire-on-your-list-of-people-you'd-give-anything-to-be-stranded-with-on-a-broken-down-elevator. But it's about more than that. When is it ever about more than that? Never. Not like frilly white dress, overpriced catering, embarrassing drunk in-laws more, but closer to UMass sweatpants, two D.P. Dough Roni Zonies, a futon and a movie you have no interest in seeing more. But she doesn't know.
She's gorgeous, but gorgeous is an understatement. More like you're startled every time you see her because you notice something new in a "Where's Waldo" sort of way. More like you can't stop writing third grade run-on sentences because you can't remotely begin to describe something ... someone ... so inherently amazing. But you're a writer. You can describe anything. That's what you do: pictures to words, events to words, words to even better words. But nothing seems right. More like you're afraid that if you stare at her for too long, you'll prove your parents right: that yes, your face will stick that way. But you wouldn't mind.
You wouldn't mind that the questioning, "Hello?" on the other end makes you want to smile and throw up at the same time. You wouldn't mind worrying about what to get her for her birthday and spending $300 when you only have $17.50 and a Triple-A card to your name. You wouldn't mind that she left your TV on and the blaring infomercials wake you up at 4 a.m. ... because it gives you a chance to watch her sleep. You don't mind that you've slipped up twice when you were hammered and hinted at how you feel, but she was too drunk to remember. So she doesn't know.
Sure, she's pretty, but it's about more than that. You two connect. Anything you throw at her, she can throw right back. You figured out what's going on in that predictable head of hers in under five minutes, but something tells you her heart would take about five years.
You remember everything she's ever said to you, and when that freaks her out you blame it on your photographic memory (which is a lie, you have a 2.7 GPA). You can't remember your teaching assistant's name, and you can't remember that your Puffton rent check was due four days ago, yet you remember the middle name of the kid who tripped her in fifth grade and gave her that cute little scar on her shoulder. Maybe it's because you actually listen when she talks. When do you actually listen? Never. But she doesn't know.
She doesn't know. You get that library elevator feeling in your stomach that she'll never know. You get that feeling that you'll be forced to write a cheesy Collegian column about her that makes "Sleepless in Seattle" look like "Girls Gone Wild."
You go to sleep. You wake up. She doesn't know. You're not in love. You're not obsessed. You blame it on the fact that you just need to get some, but still, it's about more than that. It would just be nice if once in your life, things worked out the way you wanted them to.
So Amy, it's about time you know*.