I despise going to the doctor.

I have been doctor phobic all my life.

My mother goes bi-weekly and she is as relaxed and compliant as a baby.

Me. I usually am up all night imagining root canals, breast cancer, high blood pressure, heart disease.

Yesterday, I had appointments with two of my least favorites…dentist and gynocologist.

Pardon me, but I was under surveillance at both ends.

My first challenge was driving through rush hour traffic to Westwood in the rain. That is truly Mission: Impossible.

Parking spot secured.

Take the elevator to 8.

Open wide and 45 minutes later I am off to the gynecologist in Santa Monica…another road race.

I hate marking time in the waiting room.

Then the weigh in, blood pressure (I suffer from white Coat Syndrome) and finally, the endless naked wait in a cold room with magazines from 2014 (Ben and Jen aren’t even together anymore).

I read the ancient gossip, reclining in potholder stirrups in a paper robe that tears with every breath.

Finally, the prodding and poking commences.

At this age, you find out that you are depleted of estrogen.

I depart after paying enough to buy a new pair of designer shoes, but hell, I am still all woman with straight, polished teeth and in full possession of healthy breasts and a functioning uterus.