The nurse practitioner in charge of the health and well-being of my lady bits is someone with whom I went to high school--but she graduated, like, 10 years after I did.
As if that's not bad enough, at my recent annual exam, the one that coincides with my birthday (in this case, my 40th birthday), I had to endure her talking to me about how my new low dose birth control pills would, "help with the hot flashes that might accompany perimenopause." They would also help with "mood swings and irregular periods" that also might accompany the beginning of "the change."
I am apparently entering the period of a woman's life when her eggs die off and her ovaries shrivel and her body says, "More babies? That's a joke, right?" Apparently I have about 10 more years of birth control pill-taking years left in me before we need to "discuss other options." Please, dear god, let my period dry up by then.
Then she handed me my own "schedule your mammogram" paper. Pink, of course.
One more day until I'm 40, folks. One. more. day.