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So I went to the doctor for a clomid check. Yes, clomid is a fertility drug and yes I'm only thirty-two and have a child, but for some reason, like Tina Fey's character in Baby Mama, I have a poorly shaped uterus. They just figured this out a year later because Kaiser sucks so much ass.

Anyway, the doctor who's there today is busy, so in walks his intern or something, lanky and elongated like Beavis, young like Doogie Howser,but with absolutely no confidence or authority. He checked my breathing for some reason with the stethoscope and asked me awkward questions. It felt like that game, seven minutes in the closet where you're supposed to go in and make out, but once there it's quiet and uncomfortable and you're hoping you can just get away without kissing. This guy was trying to get away with not looking at my vagina.

"Do they normally...check you?" he asked. "Each time."

"Yes," I said. "It's a clomid check. So I get checked."

"Ok," he squeaked then picked out a pair of latex gloves. That's when I noticed his hands--huge, and because of the blue gloves, glowing like the hands on a crosswalk sign. 

A nurse came in. "Um," he said. "Could I get some bigger gloves?" 

Good God.

Then it was time to enter and he did so with the awkwardness of a virgin. His paws were shaking. 

I thought: this is awful, this is awful, this is absurd. Prodding, poking, x-rays, MRI's, drugging, having sex with a syringe, and now these Beavis Doogie hands up in here. 

Enough.