An "outtake" from the novel Real Women Wear Red
When I left my ex-husband, Alec, my two favorite words were "dignity" and "self-respect." From that moment on, I was going to run as fast as I could from anything that even ever so slightly put either one of those two at risk. It became my mantra of sorts. I would mutter to myself, "dignity and self-respect, dignity and self-respect" whenever I felt slightly threatened or insecure.
So there I was two days before the flight to Miami lying on the doctor’s table with my legs spread as far apart as they physically could. Actually, farther I was sure. With my feet in stirrups and almost every part of my voluptuous body exposed because the two pink paper napkins they gave me, one for my large breasts and the other for my ample bottom, had ripped apart and were flying through the air.
I asked myself whatever happened to dignity and self-respect? Should I throw on my clothes and drive away as quickly as I could or did I endure it, escape to some place pleasant in my mind and get it over with? Because it took all of my courage to even show up for this appointment without cancelling at the last minute. I dreaded this appointment more than ever since my divorce.
Maybe it was the part where they asked about my nonexistent sex life.
But back to the indignity of lying here on the GYN table. After all, the doctor, female I might add, had appeared. I wasn’t sure I was happy with another female poking around my body so intimately. But I also wasn’t sure a male doctor would make me feel any better. Not unless he offered a better dressing gown. But why take a chance? Next time, I’d bring my own.
I closed my eyes and held my breath as she poked around commenting on my privates, "You’re a bit red and dry."
I quickly offered, "Must be my bath soap. I showered right before I came in.
"No, no. It happens at your age, you know."
