STRANGER THAN FICTION: LET'S GET PHYSICAL: MY ANNUAL TRIP TO THE CLINIC

There are few things in the world more humiliating than a woman's annual physical.

Sure, being told to strip down and lie on a table initially sounds fun, until you realize you're under bright examination lights in front of God and everybody.

The Other Half calls me a whiner when we discuss this subject. Men's physicals are just as bad, he says, and you don't hear HIM whining about it. I say it's different. Men are used to walking around locker rooms snapping each other with towels. They're surrounded by people while using public bathrooms.

But all our lives, we women are taught to be modest. Our mothers counsel us to sit with our legs crossed. At slumber parties, our friends teach us how to remove brassieres without taking off our shirts. Most of us, with the notable exceptions of Demi Moore and Madonna, like to remain clothed in front of total strangers.

Which is why I go to a branch of the Scott County Health Department for my annual physical. The nurse practitioner who does the exams is a woman. All her nurses are women. Only women are in the waiting room on Physical Day.

I started going there when I was young and poverty stricken and my employer offered a pitiful insurance plan with a $500 deductible. The only way it paid off is if the insured were run over.

Now I work for a great company with great benefits, including a great insurance plan! (May I have my raise now?) But I still like going to the clinic better than my regular doctor's office for some things.

The atmosphere is way more relaxed at the clinic. For example, when one of the office workers yelled, "Jolene, are you still on Depo-Provera?" from across the room, Jolene just looked up, nodded and went back to her magazine. She didn't mind having five other people know her choice in birth control.

And there are lots of helpful government brochures on display like "Herpes -- Its Up and Down Sides" and "Syphilis and You." One brochure on weight control is written like a play. The illustration shows two women sitting at a table covered in chips, sodas, cookies, etc.

YVONNE (the fat one): Gee, Diane, I can't figure out why I'm getting so big. I can't fit into a dress I bought a month ago for my niece's wedding.

DIANE (the thin one): Let's take a wild guess -- could it be those 2,000 grams of saturated fat you just shoved into your mouth?

YVONNE: I never considered it, but you may be right!

At the end of this exciting dialogue, there's a little weight test the reader can do for herself. It says: "Stand straight with your feet together. Does your stomach hide your toes? Is your waist larger than your hips? Then you may have excess fat that is dangerous."

How about adding some other, more realistic questions garnered from my own personal experience? When you bend over to tie your shoes, do you get lightheaded and nearly pass out? When you "slip into something more comfortable" for a romantic night with your man, is the garment a mumu? Does your man start to gag?

Because the clinic is government operated, the workers run a little short on some supplies we take for granted, like brown paper bags. After one of them handed me a six-month supply of the Pill, she asked if I needed a bag.

Hmmm, juggle six months worth of the Pill outdoors for two blocks or use a bag? I took the bag.

Seriously, the ladies there are great. They take time to explain what's going on with my body. It doesn't hurt when they take a blood sample. They don't mind when I take off my shoes, socks, jewelry and glasses and spit out my gum before stepping on the scale.

Which is why I'll see them next August.

~Heidi Nieland is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.