Last week, I had my yearly lady garden inspection. Well, I suppose they inspect they whole structure, not just the garden. Anyway, as per protocol, I was a wee bit nervous when I got there. So, I was relieved when the receptionist smiled and only handed me two forms to review and sign. At least, I didn’t have to write a bunch. Then, she pointed out a third form, that was really an advertisement for CoolSculpting.
For those of you who haven’t Googled it yet, or who are otherwise out of the loop, CoolSculpting is a procedure where they wrap you in some sort of cold torture device freeze your fat cells. I could tell that the receptionist felt a little odd bringing it up since she was basically calling me a fat ass.
Receptionist: The third page is just, uh, well, we will be doing CoolSculpting and you can fill this out if you are interested.
Me: (looking down at the form with pictures of various chubby body parts with checkboxes next to them) Oh! I’m interested. I’d love to check all of the boxes.
Receptionist: (looking excited. They must get a bonus for everyone who signs up or something) Really?!
Me: Yep! I mean, you should probably just put my whole chubby body in an ice chest, but the husband would probably remind me that we have a kid in college so we shouldn’t spend money on stuff like that.
Receptionist: (looking down at her desk, and a bit awkward because there was a really heavy woman and a pregnant woman in the waiting room. Oops!) OK. (nervous laugh) Well, just sign those two forms and hand them back to me.
I stopped cracking fat jokes about myself and reviewed the two forms to be sure all of the information was still current. Then, I took a look at the CoolSculpting flier. Seriously, they had every possible body part that you could get a CoolSculpting contraption around other than the dreaded Fupa. I guess you can’t freeze a Fupa, even at the gyno office.
I don’t know how to feel about CoolSculpting at the gyno. I mean, isn’t this one of those places where women already feel vulnerable. You already dread sitting there with a paper blanket over your legs in meat locker level air-conditioning. Then, there is the part when you have to keep scooting down the table to the stirrups, and you hope you don’t fart or have any toilet paper stuck anywhere. And with all that stress already, they want to greet us with, “Hey, fatty! Let’s freeze that shit off!”
I don’t know how to feel about this, or if I need to feel anything about it. What do you think? Should the gynecologist offer CoolSculpting?
And, one more thing, if fat can be frozen, why aren’t Eskimos skinny?