The windows are pretty

I sit on the table, feeling a bit sticky

I’m normally cold

Guess I’m gettin’ old

My heart is racing

I’m thinking about getting up and pacing

But then again I’m naked, clothed only by some thin paper-sheet pink

It flummoxes me that any woman could think this is a good idea

The picture on the wall is scarier than a Chuckie film

The ovarian cycle, the menstrual cycle

Who thought it was pleasant to frame that poster?

This hasn’t even started but I can’t wait till it’s over

The tap-tap-tap on the door nearly sends me to the floor

The doctor walks in, starts very kindly talkin’

We exchange pleasantries – she sort-of knows me

I lean back and slide down the table

A shiny instrument scoops in me

Thankfully she moves gently

“Pressure” and “burning” are her adjectives

How does she know?

Ahhh I can’t wait to go!

I didn’t come here looking for affirmation

Nonetheless this leaves me without any reservation

She finishes up – all of 30 seconds

“Your Pap smear is over,” she says

I’ve got confirmation  

Thank heavens

I’m grateful for healthcare professionals and technology

But this is my confessional, my psychology

I walk out of that building, beyond the pretty windows

Neither poked nor prodded, fully clothed

One thing I know: I won’t be signing up to have a baby