My lady parts and I have a date with Dr. Uterus tomorrow.
Well, not a “date” date in the euphamistic term, but it will have some of the key elements: he will get me undressed, on my back and will get to go where no man shall go except thine husband. And, for the Hollywood twist, I get to pay for the privilege, not the other way around. He’s never even bought me dinner. Sigh. In any other context, I would be declared easy (and perhaps a little desperate, maybe even possibly a female john). Such is the life on an infertile woman.
My “date” is actually my endometrial biopsy to see if the hoodwinking of my reproductive system worked. It had better because I have been shooting myself in the ass for over a week now and I will be extremely pissed if it was for naught.
Before I grace Dr. Uterus with my alluring presence, however, I must … um … clean up. I always like to feel my best when I go somewhere that my privates will be the stars of the show and that means essentially doing the lawn job – trimming, edging and mowing. I have no idea if he notices and frankly, it’s not for him, but to remind myself that even in this most humiliating of positions, I can look damn good.
I still have my standards, after all.