I hesitate to write this blog entry. It definitely falls under the TMI category. It’s not gross, but no one really needs to know this detail about my life. However…

As I mentioned, I went to the doctor last week. I was trying to convince them to give me back the birth control pills. They took them away from me over a decade ago, when I suddenly had high blood pressure. It’s very odd for a 26 year old to have high blood pressure, so they ran all manner of tests, and I found a doctor visit that is actually more humiliating, more humbling, and more painful than the trip to the ob/gyn…. the urologist. But, they found nothing wrong and just proclaimed me a high pressure freak of nature. It wasn’t until recently that I wanted to revisit my method of birth control. They took my pressure last week, and it was a very respectable 120/70. This is low for me. Very low. The lowest it’s been since before it went high. I thought it was a fluke, but didn’t say anything, since I wanted them to give me The Pill back. They read my history, they didn’t fall for it.

Which is why I went back yesterday. For a “fitting.” Sorry, but it’s part of the story. I mean, it’s why I’m writing this in the first place. The blood pressure is a B plot. An aside note. Yesterday it was 110/70 – FREAKISHLY low for me. So, I guess it’s not a fluke. And here’s the thing, it’s not the meds because, and I know this dumb, I haven’t been taking it. I forget a lot. And then I run out. So I guess I just have gone low pressure. Maybe I have a pressure leak? An escape valve?

So, all the ladies will know what it means, when I say I was undressed and draped, sitting on the table when the fitter came in the room. Let’s call her Sally. Sally is British and has a delightful accent.

Sally: Sooooo, you came for a fitting. Wonderful! Let’s get the gloves, oops, wrong size, I need small… small hands… Sally small hands! So much the better for the patient, eh?

Me: Do they call you that?

Sally: What?

Me: Sally Small Hands.

Sally – confused: No. They call me Sally.

After Sally gets a feel for you, she picks a size, explains the details of the device and then, well, inserts it. Then she made me stand up. While holding the sheet about my waste, she made me jump up and down, squat, and wiggle my butt. To make sure it was comfortable. When I wasn’t as active as she wanted, she joined me. And together, we jumped up and down, squatted, and did a dance similar to the Chicken Dance of wedding reception fame. Although, she had pants on and I tried to hold the sheet around my waste to keep from exposing my ass. Which I was wiggling. All this was to check the “feel” and “fit” of the device. Or humiliate me, one of the two.

Still, not as bad as a trip to the urologist.

Get Your Monster Name