I'm Always Like This ... Really!

This morning, bright and early, I was scheduled for a lovely prenatal visit with my OB/GYN. Which meant a long, arduous list of preparatory tasks meant to fool the doctor into thinking I'm always pulled-together, tidy, and hairless. An extensive roster of all the things I need to do on a regular basis, but don't. The things that get shoved aside in favor of stuff like ... pooping in privacy, or going to bed fifteen minutes earlier. You know, priorities.

I had to wait until after I put the kids to bed at 8:30, because everybody knows that kids + personal grooming = a big joke; they're why these things fall to the wayside to begin with. I re-did my toenail polish, transforming the chipping hot pink I put on for the last visit (a month ago!) into a sensible French pedicure. Then I trimmed and painted my fingernails - which hadn't been so much as filed since, like, January - to match.

Once that dried, I got in the shower. Exfoliated each accessible inch. Slathered a deep-conditioner on my hair. Whittled the scaly dry patches on my feet. Then began the time-consuming process of shaving from ankle to hip, my pits, and of course ... down there, which may have been better accomplished with a weed whacker or a machete. Sadly, I'm already at the point where it's difficult to see around my belly, so most of my down-south hair removal effort was hit or miss: shave, feel. Shave, feel. In trying to see, I bent into positions that require the flexibility of a contortionist ... hard to do considering I have the flexibility of a candy cane. Let's just say that if anyone were looking for a pretty sight, they'd have been hard-up to find one in my shower.

After spending 40 minutes scrubbing and de-fuzzing, then rinsing the "stragglers" out of the shower, I still had to wait until my hair dried a little bit before I went to bed; otherwise I would have woken up looking like Bret Michaels circa mid-1980s. I couldn't use the hair dryer because the kids were asleep, so I just waited for it to air-dry. By the time it dried enough not to kink all up while I slept, it was well past midnight.

This morning the ritual continued as I inserted my contacts, which I haven't worn in so long that they actually irritated my eyes. I painstakingly plucked a few stray hairs from my eyebrows. I put on full makeup - foundation, concealer, the works. I carefully chose an outfit that, for once, could not double as pajamas. I spent twenty minutes straightening my hair, layer by layer (which frizzed anyway the second I stepped outside into the rainy day). By the time I left the house to go to my appointment, I felt utterly high-maintenance - but confident that people would look at me and see not a slovenly mom, but a cute and "with-it" pregnant chick. And that my doctor would be utterly impressed by my neatly groomed leg/pubic area. Not that she'd say anything, but at least she'd be thinking it.

When she came into the room, we chatted for a few minutes (blood pressure's good, weight's decent, tests were normal). Then she came at me with the Doppler to listen to the baby. She found it right away, and I was filled with joy hearing the steady swoosh-swoosh-swoosh of my little one's heartbeat. Then she motioned for me to sit up, a gesture which I figured would be followed by, "Now take off your pants and I'll be back in just a minute." Instead, she said, "Okay, we're all done! See you in four weeks!"

I was dumbfounded. No below-the-belt exploration? "You mean you're not ... you're not going to look at my ..."

"Nope, you're off the hook this time," the doctor smiled.

Yes, when it comes right down to it, I was glad to be spared the "uckiness" of a vaginal exam. But all that prep work, the exfoliation, the shaving - it was all for nothing? Just my luck.

At least Curtis will be happy. ;)