It can only mean juan thing when your guynocologist, who sort of evokes Alice B. Toklas styled by Chico’s, calls you the day before the day before Valentine’s Day and leaves you a voicemail message stressing that she’s received your test results and really wants to talk to you about them and then makes herself unavailable for the next twenty-four hours and a half, as in thirty-mother-humping-six.
She found your dick.
No, but seriously, I was freaking out after listening to the guyno’s voice not tell me what was wrong with me as I gently farted into my driver’s seat in front of Staples. I’ve never had a physician call me personally, nobody tells me shit personally, I find out people I love have died because they stop posting on Facebook, and so, after shoving my phone back into my mangy purse, I did not “keep calm and carry on.” My armpits started kicking my deodorant’s ass. I began shitting big, hairy, mental bricks by imagining the news my guyno had to unload. Maybe she’d found cancer. Or like I said earlier, my cock-a-doodle-do-her. Or a pair of balls. Or a baby. Or a really special baby. Or my twin. Of all the aforementioned, I was most excited about the possibility of a wayward twin ensconced by my pussy. A sister in a sister. This possibility made me feel less Polish, more Russian.
The doctor finally got back to me on Valentine’s Day morning to share her news.
She explained that I have a clingy, endometrial polyp that my uterus keeps trying to get rid of whenever I get a period, hence my painful strawberry jelly. Upon googling endometrial polyps, I found images that looked not unlike uterine Cheetos…
She explained that she’s going to have to surgically pull my Cheeto, and I visualized her post-op, with Cheeto fingers.
This other image I found of endometrial polyps looks like a uterus stuffed with uvulas, the little thing at the back of the cat’s throat that the mouse uses as a punching bag.
Also, I discovered that some polyps can grow on stalks and, thus, gain some length, like E.T.’s finger, and I wondered if TJ got a matching one, could we touch E.T.s?
My guyno added that while I don’t have anemia or insulin-resistance, I have the worst case of vitamin D deficiency in the history of vitamin Dficiency. This is because as a gay lady, I get plenty of V but only got a little D in my early 20s. She explained, “The normal person has a Vitamin D range of 30 to 100. You have 5. Start slamming the D. It’s great for bones.”
I followed her prescription and started the D yesterday. And Valentine’s Day shall henceforth be known as Vitamin D Day.