And it is this: There is no waiting room of the Center for Colorectal Health. If you find yourself there, you were never there. Neither was I.
But just in case you forget that rule and find yourself in this non-existent waiting room in the Center for Colorectal Health, there's a second rule, which is:
In the waiting room of the Center for Colorectal Health, keep your eyes down at all times.
Lots of ass-shame in that room. So much ass-shame.
I couldn't quite see too well on account of following rule 2, so the memory is sketchy due to my weak peripheral vision and tendency to imagine things that might or might not have been real, but I'm pretty sure everyone there but me was in disguise. There was Guy in Black Unitard Wearing a Monocle and a Beret, who sat in the corner and twisted his fake handlebar mustache while mumbling things like "Sacre Bleu!" and "Vive la revolution!!" and "Croissant? Eh huh-huh-huh-huh? Oui?" behind his People magazine. I wasn't buying it.
There was Guy in Polo Shirt who brought his own set of golf clubs and kept practicing his swing and yelling, "Yes!! Nailed it!" and asking the receptionist in a loud, obvious voice, "Do you happen to know when my best pal the other doctor in this office besides me, his friend and esteemed colleague, will be ready for our GOLF GAME that we are having after he's done with these *dismissive wave* people with problems?" to which she'd reply, "Has your butt donut deflated again, sir? Please have a seat."
There was a patient who crept into the office holding an empty refrigerator box over his body, quietly accompanied by plinky cartoon secret-tiptoe music in an attempt to throw us all off, quickly setting his disguise down on the floor and playing the old "abandoned refrigerator box" trick every time somebody looked up. He didn't fool me though, I could see him looking around behind the eyeholes he had cut out. Good ruse, though, box guy.
I didn't wear a costume because I didn't know about the ass-shame ahead of time, but I did pose as "The busiest and most important texter in the universe" and "Woman who misplaced the cure for cancer in her wallet" and "Woman whose thoughtful introspection has transported her to a realm of inner peace that few mortals have ever known."
It bothered me that I was the only woman in there. I'm pretty sure they all assumed I'd been having shitloads of anal sex, which I haven't by the way. So to prove it I cleared my throat and said "Hey you guys, quick poll! Raise your hand if you hate anal sex!" and raised my hand, so crisis averted, ass-virtue preserved.
But just in case, to make my point clear, I borrowed a post-it pad from the receptionist and made some signs for my ass, and then sauntered casually around the room for a bit.
They brought me into an exam room early.
Inside the exam room was a plastic model of a cross-section of an asshole, which happened to have been afflicted with every possible ailment known to ass.
Finally the doctor arrived.
Doctor: Hi, I'm Dr. Beth. (Holds out hand to shake)
Me: Ah...Oh...you know what? (Holding hands up) Wet hands. (Oh well)
Doctor: So...tell me a little about why you're here.
Me: Um...really? I think that's for me to know and you to find out.
Doctor: ...
Me: *intimidating fake-out shoulder thrust*
Doctor: You're not going to tell me why you're here?
Me: I'll tell you to mind your own fucking business is what I'll tell you.
Doctor: Don't be embarrassed! Come on, how am I supposed to help you if you won't tell me what's wrong?
Me: 20 questions?
Doctor: You want me to guess?
Me: I'll say hot or cold.
Doctor: How about you just tell me.
Me: Two truths and a lie?
Doctor: One truth, no lies.
Me: Split the difference? One truth, one lie, and one lie of omission?
Doctor: You've never been to a colorectal specialist before, have you?
Me: Hey! I'm thinking of an even number between 1 and 100...
Doctor: 82.
Me: Yes. That's right. (Sigh.) Please don't stick your finger up my ass.
Doctor: You know what? Let's just talk for a bit, get to know each other.
Me: I'm scared. I've never...done this before.
Doctor: Don't worry, you're safe here. (snaps on rubber gloves)
The thing is...the thing that gets me...the thing about this experience that haunts me...is that...what you don't expect is that...
*lip tremble*
*bravely wipes eyes with forearm*
You know how in movies, they bend you over the table? I was ready for that.
And you know how at the gyno, they put your legs up in stirrups? I could've handled that.
But what she did was...she rolled me onto my side and told me to pull my legs up to my chest. Then she stuck her jellied finger up my butt while I lay in the fetal position, which is like tucking someone into bed with their teddy bear and a cup of hot cider and nestling them in the arms of the tooth fairy as Santa sits at the foot of the bed making his list and checking it twice and telling you that you've been a good girl and then surprise! Look over there! It's your Nana giving a donkey a hand job! Yeah, see? Confused feelings is right!
Once I was able to calm down and stop shrieking "Oh my God! I'm pooping right now! Poop coming out I can feel it for real this time!!" every time she got her fingertip half an inch in, her finger was only up there long enough for me to groan, "I don't liiiike this one little biiiiiittttttt...." and then it was done, but fetal position is forever ruined.
Sorry, yoga cooldown.
Sorry, restful catnaps.
Sorry, in utero soothing night sounds CD.
Doctor's orders involved buying lots of things at the drug store that are usually reserved for old people, and lots of things that are usually reserved for babies, and basically confusing the hell out of my asshole to the point that it just settles the fuck down. Break it down with harsh words, and then build it back up with compliments until I've got it wrapped around my little finger, so to speak. I'm gonna be my asshole's Ike Turner, giving it the back of my hand and screaming, "I'll TELL you what's love got to do with it, bitch!!" *SMACK!* And then giving it a diamond tennis bracelet and cooing, "You know you're my best asshole. My ONLY asshole. You know you shouldn't make me mad like that, baby." This Ike and Tina thing isn't part of the doctor's orders, but I can read between the lines. It's what she DIDN'T prescribe that counts.
But she did say I need to chew my almonds better. That makes sense I guess.
