I fold up the papers in my lap and look at her. “Sounds good. I’m not sure what type I want to get on.”
“That’s okay. That’s what I’m here for. Would you rather something inserted in your body or daily pills?” She folds her hands in her lap as she gives me her full attention.
“Daily pills might be too much hassle, but the idea of a foreign object in my body creeps me out a little. I guess it’s not all that different than the trackers we put in our animals at the zoo though.” I let that thought sit with me. The animals don’t have a problem with it, so why should I?
“I understand that with the pills. You would have to be intentional about taking them at the same time every day. However, with the implant and IUD, it’s only a one-time insertion and most don’t need to be replaced for three years. You won’t feel them inside you. Ultimately, it’s your decision. I will tell you, when I was on birth control, I had the implant. It worked well for me.” That settles it for me. If it’s good enough for the gynecologist, it’s good enough for me.
“I’ll do that then. The implant,” I decide.
“Okay. I’ll put in the order now and inject it after your Pap Smear. Now, legs in the stirrups.” She situates herself at my feet and gets to work.
She talks me through the procedure, and when the pinch comes, I’m prepared. It doesn’t stop me from wincing, as the bite of pain still jolting through me.
Once that’s done, she steps out so I can clean myself and get dressed. It seems almost comical to give me that privacyafter just being inside my vagina. But I appreciate it nonetheless.
She returns and injects the implant in me. Nausea rolls through me, but besides that, I don’t feel any different. I rub at the site in my arm, trying to soothe the ache. After thirty minutes, I leave the building.
On my way home, I pass the mall. Impulsively, I pull into the parking lot and go inside. It’s silly to buy a new outfit for a date, but I want to treat myself. This is my first date in over a year, not counting Betty’s setup.
Entering one of the department stores, I make my way to the women’s section. Flipping through racks of clothes, I try to find something that speaks to me. Some printed skirts catch my eye. There’s a leopard print one and a snake print one. They’re both maxi length, which does cause me trouble with only being five feet tall, but I grab them anyway.
Skipping to the next section, I add a maroon lace dress, a razor blue halter-neck top, and a white fur blouse. My next stop is the dressing room.
First, I try on the skirts. Both of which drag to the floor. I hold back my groan of frustration. Every pair of pants and long dresses have to be hemmed. Even the petite ones, which are made for five-foot four-inch women, are too long. I try not to dwell on the fact that this world wasn’t made for short people, which makes sense since I’m in the first percentile. For heaven’s sake, I can’t even reach the middle shelf.
I pull off the skirt and go for the maroon dress. This one lands at my knees, which is longer than it’s meant to be, and it’s tighter than intended around my curvy thighs. Being short and curvy proves to be even more difficult. I can’t shop in the junior’s section because my bust and hips can’t squeeze into them.
Then I try on the blue blouse. It’s a brighter color than I’d normally go for, but it was too pretty to pass up. It fits well but stretches tightly over my boobs. Lastly, I grab the white fur top, its straps slip off my shoulders.
Now I remember why I don’t like shopping. Nothing ever fits. Getting dressed, I collect all the disappointing clothes and hang them on the rack. A saleswoman at the counter stops folding clothes to address me.
“Did none of them work out for you?” she sounds upset for me, and that makes me instantly like her.
“No. None fit me right.” I redden as I admit it.
“Hmm. Let’s see if I can help. Are you shopping for a specific event?” The lightness in her voice lifts my disheartened spirits.
“A first date.” I might as well be honest. “At a sports bar.”
She wrinkles her nose which makes me laugh. “I’m guessing he chose the place.”
“Oh yeah. Sports bars aren’t really my scene,” I confess.
“Mine either. Do you have a dark pair of jeans you could wear? We can find a cute top and coat to go with them,” she suggests.
I wince. “I’m not the biggest fan of jeans. I hate the way they fit.”
She nods understandingly, then perks up. “I have an idea! Follow me. I’m Kendra, by the way!”
“I’m Lizzy.” She smiles, then zips through the store, grabbing items so quickly off racks and shelves that I can’t process what they are. I see a wave of sheer fabric and some green plaid.
When we return to the dressing room area, she presents her findings. “Here’s a pair of sheer fleece-lined tights. They’re furry and warm, but still sexy. And they’ll fit no matter what.” She holds them out for me to feel.
“Woah, those are soft!”
Then she holds up a dark green, plaid jumper. It has a V-neck top, cinches slightly at the waist, then falls into a loose skirt. “Here’s the dress to wear on top. It’s cute, but still casual enough for a sports bar. And you can wear this top underneath it.” She holds up a black mock-neck, long-sleeve top.
“That’s perfect!” I grin as I clap my hands together. “I already have a black top like that though, but can I still try it on to complete the look?”
