So, as you know, I had the stomach flu over the holidays and, since then, my insides haven't been the same. I think my bowels need therapy, to be honest. Isn't that such a sexy word...bowels. I've talked more about my bowels in the past month than I have in my entire life.
Let me explain. Since my stomach flu adventure, I realized I needed to hit a doctor's office; a real doctor -- not Google. As one of my besties said "Tasha, you need a real doctor, you know, one with an MD behind her name."
OK, I get it. My body hates me, my bowels need therapy and fuck, I don't feel very well, like, ever. Time to make some calls.
I picked a doctor out of a long insurance list, mostly because it was close. To set the scene, I'll remind you that I live in Stepford Land, Philadelphia.
Appointment day comes. I walk in...and the office immediately reminds me of my plastic surgeon's office in Las Vegas.
I shyly walked up to the front desk and was greeted by a woman who had had SO much work done to her face she could give Joan Rivers a run for her money (seriously). I struggled not to stare at her frozen lips while she smiled at me.
What I didn't get when I made the appointment was that the "wellness" center was, not only an MD's office but, botox freakin central in Stepford Land.
I felt like I was in a reality television show; it was that bizarre. Not in a bad way, just...different. Hell, I've had work done; I wasn't scared of the handsome, well dressed plastic surgeons who strolled in, smiled and said hello as I sat on the waiting couch. But the pictures of the beautiful, botoxed, sucked-and-tucked women on the walls was a little intimidating, mostly because I was there to talk about...my bowels.
Finally, Joan Rivers called me back to get measured and weighed.
Yes, said Joan, but you can take off as many pieces of clothing as you want -- to weigh less!
Cool. I didn't get naked but pretty damn close.
I was then led into an exam room where we talked about, you guessed it, my bowels. I explained how I'd been ignoring this feeling, could hardly eat and had nixed the alcohol consumption hoping it would improve (it hasn't). She made a face about the alcohol and, honest to god, replied
"Oh honey, no wine!? That's awwwwful! You poor thing. Oh well... I know that's not very smart of me to say that as you health care provider..."
Stepford Land, I tell ya.
I was a bit taken back but I rolled with it. Yeah, I told her, I'm pissed! (not really, but I'm a good actress...)
I liked the real doctor that came in after Joan. She asked all the right questions, seemed proactive about my health and (drum roll, please) recommended that I get a colonoscopy.
I'm sorry...what? A co-co-co-colon...what?
I can handle this. I've had two babies, one at home. I'm carrying around silicone gel under my skin. I run with the country club bitches.
No sweat, right? Maybe I could get a pedicure and a little botox during the procedure?
"Um yes, doctor, do you think you could schedule some botox for my face while you're sticking that tube up my ass? You know, to save time..."
I'll have to remember not to bring up the colonoscopy at the country club, though. That would be bad etiquette, right?