boys shouldn't read this

OK. I’m back. Everybody settle down. You can thank my crappy economics course for my extended absence. I’ll let you guys know my mark once I get it. I was the first one finished, which is never a good sign.

Anyway. Back to my story.

So as some of you know, I’ve been having some trouble with some areas of my body which some people have, in the past, taught me to refer to as my “private parts.” This is why I have warned the boys not to read this – I think It may get pretty graphic. Anyway, I got an appointment with my doctor, but she wasn’t available, so I had to see this guy who I don’t normally have. And we talked and we did some tests which were uncomfortable and all that and we were waiting for some of the special results.

I was, I can admit, more than a bit nervous about this whole deal because I have lately become terrified of any medical complication more serious than a hangnail. So . . . literally . . . neurotic me, every time the phone rang and it was a number I didn’t recognize I got a bit jumpy expecting bad news of test results.

So I got probed by this strange new doctor on Friday and then on Tuesday got this phone call.

“May I speak to Sebrina please?”
“Yes, this is me.”
“This is Dr. May’s office.”
Hello. My heart is starting to pound and I am starting to get worried. They said that they would only call if the tests indicated something was going on, so this is not a good sign. I am a bit jumpy at this point.
“Ok.”
“We are calling to ask if you would like to make an appointment for a cleaning.”
OK. Now I am embarrassed. A cleaning? I thought I was pretty clean. Oh, man. This is embarrassing. How much more vulnerable can you be? Lying pretty much naked on a table and then your doctor has his receptionist call and schedule you for a cleaning? I didn’t even know there were such things. I’ve never heard of this before.
“A cleaning?”
“Yes. We were wondering if you would like to come in. We can take you tomorrow if you’d like.”
So apparently this is an emergency of sorts. Should I be ashamed of this? What’s going on? Is there some womanly secret to cleaning that area that my mother never told me about? It seems hardly fair to judge me for that.
“So, like . . . do I need one?”
“Well, our records show that its been a year since your last one, and its advisable to have at least one cleaning per year.”
What? I don’t remember having a cleaning. Except . . . .
Frick. Dr. MAY. Now I remember. He’s my fricking dentist.