Free & clear plan.
Generally speaking, I try to avoid pity parties. But couple that with 1) Monday 2) A dreary, rainy sky and 3) Receiving a jolting call from my private parts Doc – the “would you like some cheese with your whine” invitation was near impossible to avoid.
Tipping Point: While Facebook’s news feed is inundated with pictures of preggers bellies and manicured fingers sporting new flashy diamonds, I’m getting tested for STDs.
On the cusp of turning 31, obviously this wasn’t what I had painted as my reality. Ultimately I have faith that God has a mapped out plan for little ol’ me, and I’m not bitching about His timeline not matching mine…however every once in a while, when constant glimpses into the lives of others are where you thought [and want] to be, the bottom lip can have a tendency to protrude beyond control.
When Mr. Ex and I broke up allegedly “for good” two New Years ago, I dabbled in dating a few good [and not so good] gentleman. One fellow, who shall remain nick-nameless, let me know he had recently tested positive for Herpes. What an awful-sounding name, fitting for an awful, cureless disease. Although I was pretty confident through the wonders of protection that I didn’t inherit the sucker strand, finding out for sure was a no brainer.
I scheduled an impromptu pap @ my faithful Gyno and everything across the basics board checked out, whew. But the supplemental lab was backed up for hours that day & blood work was necessary in order to eliminate the specific transmission in question. I’d have to come back another day and handle the remaining test.
Fast forward to my final rendezvous six months later with Mr. Ex who had some secret sexual indiscretions that took place behind my back…time to hop in the STD checking saddle again! So I made an appearance last week to run the whole gamut…scrape my insides, fill vials of tubes — heck even throw in an HIV test, the works. As I sat there in my paper mache makeshift gown waiting for Vagina Caretaker M.D. to enter the room, I thought, “Hmm how do I explain that I’m not a slut. ‘Doc, you may recall I dated a guy who had the Herp. Well since then I got back with an Ex…who cheated on me.’ This should be good…”
As if I haven’t already wanted to scalp the guy for betraying me, but Lord give me the strength not to castrate his goods if they infected me with anything that ends in “itis” “orrhea” “mydia” “pes” or their venereal counterparts.
The kicker is – often times…guys are just the carriers. They don’t actually get symptoms. So it is doubly deceiving to think your manfriend is good to go. Sneaky bastards.
When my doctor called today, not his nurses, my heart sank. “Oh crap. Why is *he* the one leaving a voicemail?”
Maybe it was a slow day in the office. Turns out all the heavy hitters, from A to Z, came back negative.
I can thankfully go on about my singlehood business with a clean reproductive bill of health. Although I may not have emotionally gotten away from the Ex free-and-clear, at least I can now physically wipe him from the genital files.
