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Jim Henson's whirling in his grave

I think it would have been a better idea for my doctor to hold this afternoon's post-cycle consultation in a conference room instead of an examination room.

Paul and I perched uncomfortably on plastic chairs, the chairs that have held up my empty jeans and crumpled underpants on dozens of occasions. The doctor wobbled precariously atop a wheeled stool, not unlike the one from which he presided over my in-office D&C. And before us loomed the table, stripped for the occasion of its paper sheathing, but still bearing those jaunty cloth covers on the stirrups.

You know the ones I mean. Sometimes they're fuzzy socks. Sometimes they're hand-knitted booties. In my doctor's office, they're sticky purple vinyl, kindly supplied by our friends at Ortho. I suppose they're intended to make pelvic intrusion a little more cozy.

I admit it: the presence of the examination table threw me. It made me uncomfortable. I mean, I couldn't really listen to a single thing my doctor had to say, because the whole time the poor man talked, all I could think of was how much I wanted to snatch up the stirrup covers and put on a rollicking puppet show.