I had my yearly physical this morning, a pleasure which includes—among other things—my annual pelvic exam. I don’t look forward to it with the excitement of, say, my semi-annual teeth cleaning, but I don’t dread it like some women I know. (I mean, I voluntarily let people tinker around down there from time to time … people a lot less knowledgeable about what goes where than my doctor.)

The woman I saw today is new to me, and she seemed to be a little green in the pelvic exam department. She did remember to warm the speculum. Good, good. But, as she started, instead of the usual “You’re going to feel my hand and then you’ll feel me sliding in the speculum,” she touched me, slid it in and said, “Sorry.”

Sorry? Sorry for what?!?

I quickly realized that she was saying it like “excuse me” not like “oops, I maybe just poked a hole in your uterus.” God, I hate that usage of the word sorry.

Breathe.

Then for the insane part … the opening of the speculum. Dum dum dum. Okay, “insane” is a little strong, but “open” doesn’t really do this procedure justice. Open implies fluid motion— one fluid motion. The opening of a door. The opening of a zipper. The opening of the lines of communication. No, no. This is more like the opening of a tightly sealed jar of pickles. The kind you have to bang on the counter a few times and run under hot water.

Hmm. Not the most flattering analogy when talking about my passion fruit perhaps. Okay, imagine a tightly sealed jar of … um, artichoke hearts.

Anyway, these things … I wish I knew another word for the contraption of which I speak … the, uh, spreaders, I’ll call them, make a frightening ratcheting noise when opening and closing, a noise that brings to mind a splintered, hand-crank drawbridge over a dyke somewhere in the Netherlands. It’s just impossible to hear that sound without imagining your delicate lady parts getting gnarled up in the machinery. Of course, this never happens. Whoever designed the spreader had an implicit understanding of the horror that arises when ratcheting stuff and mushy bits come together.

It took my doctor three jerky motions to get the view she was looking for. With each one, I wondered if the pressure from my incredibly toned and taut vagina was going to crumple the little drawbridge. (It didn’t.) She opened swab packets and poked around for a few minutes.

It’s worth noting at this point, for the aspiring ob-gyns in the crowd, there was absolutely no idle chit chat. Nothing extraneous or aimed at making me more relaxed. No questions about my hobbies or my career. I liked that. Get in. Get out. It should be a guerrilla strike executed with precision and zero flourishes.

Before long, I felt her closing the spreader. Home free. But just as she was about to take it out, from under the paper “modesty cover” I heard her say, “Sorry.”

WTF?!?

“Your cervix is turned a little to the left. I need to readjust here.” She slid it back in and began ratcheting again.

So, yeah, my cervix was feeling a lil cheeky today and decided to fuck with me just because it could. On the up side, my doctor skipped the anal portion of the program. She also gave a mean breast exam.