As most of you know, I live in a pretty small town. Not tiny, but with only 70,000 people living here, you’re always running into people you know.
Trying to sneak a pint of Ben & Jerry’s into your strict, got-to-get-skinny-quick diet? You’re bound to run into your Weight Watchers meeting leader in the checkout line.
Call in to work with a sudden stomach illness so you can get some errands done? You’re sure to see your HR manager at Target.
Heck, I know someone who had to try and conduct a conversation with her boss…while in labor. Yes, labor.
After five years, you’d think I’d be used to this way of life by now. But discovering one of my new-found friends is my OB’s wife? Was more than this city girl could calmly handle.
But let me back up for a minute.
During NaNoWriMo, a small group of moms from my Mom’s Group (including me, obviously), decided to get together for a write-in. It was held in a private home, and I arrived late. Horribly late. Why? Well because even with a smartphone leading the way, I can’t find my way out of a paper bag.
Anyway, my nerves were jangled by the time I got there, and I was still feeling pretty discombobulated when our hostess led me into her living room. Trying to get my bearings, I plopped myself down on the nearest soft surface and looked around. I took note of the comfy sofas. The end tables that I couldn’t help thinking would look great in my own home. And the row of nicely framed pictures.
I looked once. Blinked. Then looked again.
Was that…? Yes. Yes it was. My gynecologist was grinning down at me.
I cleared my throat. “Wow, those are really great pictures. Is that your husband?” I asked in a squeaky voice.
“Yep,” she answered. “They’re our Christmas photos from last year.”
“Huh. They’re really…great,” I said. Inside, of course, my brain was screaming.
“You’re sitting in your gynecologist’s house,” it said. “You’re chatting with the wife of a man who’s had his hand up your hoo-ha. Dude, he’s seen you naked!”
“I know, I know,” I said to my brain.” But it’s no big deal. He’s a doctor. To him, a body is a body is a body.”
“No. Nonononono, it’s not okay. I don’t know how to handle this!” it screamed.
“Calm down. We should just tell her, all casual like,” I said.
“What do you want to say? Hey your husband knows that my carpet and drapes don’t match?”
“Oh grow up, brain.”
“Just don’t say anything, okay? We’ll figure this out later.”
“Fine,” I sighed. “But shut up, alright?”
I got through the rest of the evening, feeling weird but enjoying the company of my fellow writers. Every once in a while, my brain would squeak, “naked!” or moan “vajayjay! ” but I just told it to hush and left without saying a word to my hostess.
The next day, I asked all my friends what I should do. Actually, mostly what I said was, “Is it weird, or is it just me?”
They agreed that yes, it was weird. But no one knew quite what to do.
A few days later, I gathered once again with a group of moms, this time cooking freezer meals. Conversation rambled from books to holidays to kids to an absent mom’s looming delivery.
“I wonder if my husband will deliver her baby,” my OB’s wife said. “If he does, I think she’ll be his first patient from the mom’s group.”
“Nope, he delivered mine,” I said loudly. “It was last year.”
In the sudden silence that overtook the kitchen my brain screamed, “Now what did you go and do that for, you idiot? Now they all know her husband’s seen your vajayjay”
“It’s vagina, you overgrown fourth-grader,” I answered. “And nobody cares.”
Sure enough, the moment passed. Conversation resumed. She was completely cool with it. And I? Actually did feel much better about the whole thing.
Still, when I saw him in the flesh the other night at our writing group? There was still a little voice inside my head moaning “naked naked naked naked.”
But now that the first awkward non-doctor’s office meeting is over, it will all seem completely normal, right? Just lie to me, Internet. I don’t want to hear any answer other than yes.