Dr. Strange Glove or How I Let Off Steam and More

I am mad. Mad mad mad MAD! I went to see my obstetrician for the first time since I was 11 weeks pregnant. So Dr. Arsehole starts off the appointment saying "Wow, how the fuck did you get so fat?!?!?"

I chuckled figuring this was a joke. "Well," I say "I'm pretty pregnant."

"Yeah," proceeds Arsehole "but you're like one of those unrecognizable ones, in the face, you know?" At this point every insecurity I have, in fact every insecurity ever, came welling up to the surface of my mind. I actually think I have several new complexes now. While I started to visualize my face morphing into a gelatinous blob, I concentrated on not changing my expression. I am, after all, a cool customer. Why else would he launch into a stand-up routine about my size, right?

Before I go on I should tell you about Dr. Arsehole. He is in fact very funny. This is one of the reasons I liked him when he was just my gyno. He always got me laughing and managed to assuage any fears I had. He also has a massive ego and thinks he's God's gift to women's health. He probably has a small penis, but that's neither here nor there. The following is about how he crossed the line and went from funny to a weird and kind of dark place.

What happened during my check-up, besides the medical part (which I grudgingly have to admit he is very good at) was a stream of fat jokes. I am a lot larger than I was when I got pregnant, but up until I had my appointment I had been hearing that I looked radiant, beautiful, "in bloom" (which means fat, but in a really nice way) and other supportive and positive adjectives. Occasionally a well-meaning person would mention that they thought there might be more than one baby in there, but over all not a lot of negative comments came from the peanut gallery. I won't bother to repeat all of the fat jokes and comments that were said but here's a goody:

"Well, you have a generously sized baby. Not huge, you're huge [Dr. A laughs at own joke], just generous."

I managed to keep it together during the internal exam by imagining smothering him to death with my giant thighs or braining him with my bestirruped foot. I was so stunned by his calorific comedy stylings that I appeared to find his jokes at my expense funny.

I left in a seemingly good mood and it wasn't until I got down to the parking lot that the red mist descended and I was MAD. Unfortunately the cocktail of hormones in my body has totally ruined mad for me. I basically just cry. Even when in my head I am grandstanding righteously I look like a kid whose ice cream fell off the cone or who just buried her pet budgie.

This traumatically unfunny doctor's appointment happened two days ago and it has taken me this entire time to find my sense of humour about it. I am still mad, but I refuse to feel fat and sorry for myself, so no self-pity party for me! I am big, blond, and beautiful and I am not going to let a vagina doctor with a God complex spoil this for me. I am still trying to figure out how to give him the piece of my mind he deserves but not potentially ruin my baby's birthday. Soon come, as they say.

I'll leave you with this bit of wisdom: Do not ever tell a woman she looks fat. Ever. EVER! the end.