I have a confession to make: I want to be friends with my new gynecologist. While this fact alone is not particularly significant, I must say I am saddened to realize that our BFFdom can never be. Our friendship will never be free to roam outside the confines of the cold metal table in the small white room in the large gray building on top of the gigantic rolling hill in our fair city of Seattle.
You see, my gynecologist is way too young and hip to be a doctor. She is either just entering her thirties or the Doogie Howser of OBGYNs. Her glasses are super cool. Her wedding band is just funky enough to allude to the fact that she may or may not have a closet full of awesome non-doctor clothes. I bet she goes to shows on the weekends. Well, when she’s not delivering babies, that is.
The concept of a hip gynecologist is new to me. I’ve never really pondered what my doctors do outside of their work hours. I suppose in that sense they’re like my elementary school teachers of yore: they are not intuitively considered regular human beings and therefore tend to disturb/shock/intrigue when happened upon in public.
But I’m getting off track, here.
Imagine my thrill when I realized that my new gynecologist is indeed both awesome and professional. I had initially come to her for a routine pap smear and birth control and left happy and reassured with a plan and an appointment to have an IUD (the Mirena) implanted later this month. With any luck she’ll be painting my nails and sharing Labor and Delivery stories in no time.
