My doctor sprung a prostate exam on me today.
“It is completely optional,” she said, her eyes glazed with maniacal glee as she snapped the exam gloves in place.
Like a deer in the headlights, I mustered a shaky smile. “Let’s save that until next time I see you,” my lips said while my brain said, Hasta la vista, baby.
“We highly recommend it. Look,” she said, wiggling her right index finger in my face. “It’s better to have a female do it; we have smaller fingers.”
“But aren’t you supposed to be over 50 before you have to do this sh… stuff?” I pleaded with her with my biggest puppy-dog eyes.
“No, that’s the colonoscopy.
Colonoscopy?!
“We do the prostate exam over age 40,” she continued while absent-mindedly lubing up her glove-clad finger. Obviously she was confident in getting her way with me.
Optional, my, uh, ass…
“But, but, but…”
“It’ll be over in a second. Pull down your pants and bend over the exam table.”
I reluctantly complied. Bent over, I looked back at her with a nervous grin. “Aren’t you going to take me to dinner first?”
“Doesn’t work that way,” I think she responded. I can’t be sure, though, because I was busy squealing like a little girl.
Sigh. When I woke up this morning, getting a finger up my business was most definitely not on my to-do list…
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