Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Male Gynecologists: OBGY?

Over the past few weeks, my daily conversations have been riddled with vagina. Why? I don't really know. But I do know that sometimes I feel like I'm in an episode of Sex & The City. And it's scary.

I'm 23 years old. And apparently at my age, I should have a vagyno picked out and put on speed dial. I have yet to divulge myself in the wide world of OBGYN, what with my abstaining from being wang banged and being prescribed birth control for whatever reason. So, that makes me out of the loop when my friends are swapping Gyno stories or sharing shaving secrets or gushing over whose uterus is the most normally shaped or, my personal favorite, whose Gynecologist is sexier.

And that brings me to my current ridiculous query, Male Gynecologists: The 8th Wonder of the World.

The Pyramid of Giza, The Sydney Opera House, Dr. Kenneth Furburger. What do these boggling works have in common? They all blow my mind. Now, I've pondered this. Really. I've spent many a minutes brooding, trying to understand why a man would want to go noodling around our great divide all day long. I just can't wrap my head around why someone, let alone someone of the male persuasion, would want to wake up, go to work and stare at a bushy bajingo day in and day out.

Women fanny nannies? Sure. We know what to expect. We know that beneath the Fruit of the Loom armor we will find God's sense of humor. We see it every day, and in the most unattractive and farthest-from-sexy way for one week a month.

And so, my bewilderment has led me to whip up a pros and cons list as an attempt to deem it acceptable for a man to be a doctor down south of the mouth. Observe:

Pros to being a medical Mr. Whiskerbiscuit:
  • You're gay, and are therefore visually unscathed by the daunting coslopus.
  • You are well-versed in the Chronicles of Vagarnia, and said knowledge could give you the upper hand in maintaining a strategically happy, healthy sex life.

Cons to being a medical Mr. Whiskerbiscuit:
  • You're gay, and are therefore visually scathed by the daunting coslopus.
  • You have to platonically poke, probe, feel around, lift, move, scrape, smell, slide, enter, exit and most importantly, look fixedly upon a flesh-toned venus fly trap for breakfast, lunch and dinner. 

Cons > Pros. The defense rests.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Confessions of an ex-heifer part 2: Once you go fat, you never go back.

Last night, as I was eating  relishing the gluttonous glory of life in my Ghirardelli Almond Sea Salt Soiree dark chocolate bar, I began to think about my journey with food. If you'll recall, I've already delved the physical joys of being an ex-heifer, but being a bulbous baby doesn't only take a toll on your muffin top - it leaves a sticky-sweet fingerprint on your will power. That's why I, and all my once-a-whale sisters out there, can say that once you go fat, you never go back. There will always be something that tickles your binge button.

Katie Miller (to Gerry Flynn): "Is your girlfriend still eating?"
Gerry Flynn (to Katie Miller): "Cheerios twice a day, then two pounds of sweets at any given moment in time."

You see, many of those who know me me know that I am a pretty healthy human being. My meals are for the most part green and/or organic, sometimes consisting of things people didn't even know came from the earth. And stop rolling your eyes, I don't eat like this for hipster or granola reasons. I eat like this because prefer the way my body feels after a hearty salad (so good), as opposed to the way my body feels after a 7 piece student special at Chicken Express (so good). Unfortunately, though, many of those who know me also know that I have a deep-seeded affinity for Chocolate.

Like, it's stupid.

As the 30 extra pounds of my youth began to slowly shed (heavy on the slowly)(pun!), I began to see my will power become enclosed in a chocolate vault.

When placed in front of me, the bag of Dove dark chocolate covered almonds becomes my prey. And I, the lioness hunting for her family ...myself, must ravish this 3-serving-large bag of pure bliss before anything might happen to it. Like a house fire. Or a tornado. Or my mother catching wind that I have chocolate goodies in the house. That woman is like a bloodhound for the sweet mixed scent of cocoa butter and semisweet chocolate.

While I do have my chunky childhood mostly to blame, it doesn't help that I believe this unhealthy adoration is genetic. I believe that my mother is the tippy top of the coocoo-for-cocoa family tree. And I absolutely believe that she passed on to me, along with the aforementioned baby weight of an extra baby, the inability to resist a nibble or 60 of anything of the chocolate descent. And it's going to be a slippery slope for the generations to come (sorry Gerry). Because on the one hand, I'm not interested in my children having type 2 diabetes at the ripe age of 7. But on the other, my milk-chocolatey heart would weep regularly if I robbed them of the wonderful, orgasmic, mouth-watering world of Dove chocolate products.

I've contemplated getting a grip on this "problem" since I no longer have obvious weight issues and I'm kind of a control freak, but... no. Besides, dark chocolate has heart-health benefits. So in my mind, the more dark chocolate I consume, the healthier my heart.

It's a win-win.