There’s nothing a woman likes more than having her breast sandwiched between two cold, steel plates and smashed til an explosion seems probable; or lying back spread-eagled while the gynecologist, his medical assistant AND the student doctor shadowing him stare into the most private part of you. And of course the doc makes it even more fun by telling you to bear down as you lay there praying that when you bear down you won’t fart (or worse) directly into his face. But it’s our duty to get these procedures done isn’t it? And this year at 55 – five years late, or 10 if you factor in that I’m African-American and should’ve had my first when I was 45 – I had one more indignity to endure: lying on my side while a doctor wielding a long, flexible colonoscope blows air up my butt.

I felt no pain though and had they bottled up that Propofol and offered to sell me a dose, I’d have gladly raided my savings account. Right before they filled my I.V., the anesthesiologist and I were having a lively discussion about my Impress nails and how natural they looked. The next thing I know, I woke up in my recovery area giggling. According to the anesthesiologist when I woke up the first time, my first word was, “Wheeeee!”

I guess of all the indignities, the colonoscopy is the most bearable – for me anyway – because I’m completely zonked and don’t care that there were three other people in the room who may have at some point ventured to the other side of the table where I’m exposed bare-assed. Reminds me of my youngest daughter when she was giving birth to her daughter. My grandbaby’s pulse rate kept dropping so my daughter had to keep changing positions during contractions. At one point, the entire code team quietly filed into the room while my daughter – bare-assed – was on her hands and knees, unknowingly mooning them.

But, what’s a woman to do?