On Sonograms and Rogue Lubricant

The pain in my ovaries was getting worse. Worried about my health and my (far, far into the future) plans to eventually make babies, I made an appointment with my OBGYN. She maneuvered her jellied, rubber gloved hands around inside me and, just as I was starting to draw comparisons between myself and a Thanksgiving turkey (we both taste good with cranberry sauce?), she said "I don't feel anything, but I'm going to schedule you for a sonogram anyway." Two weeks later, I found myself "stripping from the waist down" with my stained beige gown "open to the front" in a dressing room with no lock whose door refused to stay shut. The nurse directed me into Room 4 and I hopped up onto the examining table, still wearing my little red flats because I could think of no reason to take them off. The room was late-night-bar dark. It would have been romantic without all the machinery and the nurse pressing down on my pelvis with a bizarre humming instrument that could see through me. I stayed still as she measured my reproductive organs (am I supposed to feel pride like a guy if they're larger than everyone else's?) and when I thought she was done, she said "Now we're going to do an internal sonogram!" with the perk and enthusiasm of a museum guide. "A what?" "Oh, you've never had one before?" She held up a long vibrator-esque device with a small camera built into the tip. "Who does this regularly?" I thought as she explained that I would be inserting the instrument myself. I went to pee and contemplated the absolute absurdity of sticking a foreign object into myself while a complete stranger watched. I assured myself that people all over New York do it on a regular basis, and not just for medicinal purposes. When I returned, she had covered the device with a large, scratchy looking plastic condom and about three pounds of K-Y jelly. I lay on my back, my feet in their little red flats thrust into stirrups, held up the vibrator with the camera at the end and asked weakly "What do I do again?" "No no no no!" my nurse protested. The K-Y jelly lurched, gave in to gravity, and dropped... right onto my cashmere sweater and began mingling with my hair. "That's why you don't hold it upright" she scolded as if it were common knowledge. I took a breath and inserted the instrument. She moved it around. I wanted to look at my ovaries. She wanted me to keep still. "Do you see anything?" "Oh no no no no," she said, an obvious fan of the emphatic and multiple negatives. "I don't give out results. Your doctor will have them on Thursday." Then she handed me a box of baby wipes to clean myself up and left me to dress alone in the mood lit examining room. I left the office, went back to work, and told everyone I had gotten into a lubricant fight with my nurse.