My laissez-faire parents have always been pretty cool about not pressuring me about marriage or grandchildren. Seeing as they are both Jewish, it’s actually pretty amazing that I haven’t been guilted into a husband, or at the very least, a crippling insecurity.

Perhaps it’s because they settled down later in life, my mother was thirty and my father was thirty-seven on the day of their wedding. They didn’t take the marital plunge until their thirties, so why ask anything different from their one and only child? I suppose we’ll need to re-evaluate their coolness towards the whole situation once I turn thirty, but for now, both parents are riding the awesome wave.

I have little understanding when friends complain that their parents are not so subtly demanding grandchildren on a fixed timeline. Apparently this verbal abuse afflicts both singles and couples alike, and some parents are so desperate that they are even forgiving “first comes love.”

If you’re one of these poor souls, you’re probably rolling your eyes pretty hard right now. But let me tell you, I am no smug asshole. Well, not any more anyway. I recently experienced my first brush with marriage and baby shaming, but not from my parents. It was from my gynecologist.

Let me just say, my gynecologist is one cool dude, as far as lady part doctors go. He never makes me feel weird that he’s doing awful things to my downstairs, and he reassures me that I’ve got good plumbing. How do I know this? Because last year he told me I should date his son.

You see, like every gyno visit, he asks me the obligatory, “Are you seeing anyone special?” Last year I happened to be casually seeing a bunch of unspecial guys. That’s when I was offered the son.

At the time of this year’s visit, I was (and still am) seeing someone special. The exchange went a little something like this:

“So, have you been seeing anyone special,” the doctor asked as he squinted at the computer screen and punched some keys on the keyboard like my Dad, one index finger at a time.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Oh,” he said as his eyebrows rose. He stood up and walked over to me. “What’s his name?”

“Jacob,” I said, knowing full well my nice Jewish doctor man would approve.

“What does Jacob do?” he asked as he moved over to my side, peeling back the flimsy flaps of my stylish paper top.

“Um, he does a lot of things. He’s a graphic designer and a comedy writer mostly,” I said wincing as he placed his cold hands on my breast checking for lumps.

He stopped, hands still on my breasts, and looked me in the eye. “Is he the one?”

IS HE THE ONE?? Your hands are still cupping my breasts, and you want me to look you in the eye and tell you if my boyfriend is “THE ONE???”

I am not sure if I have ever really been asked this question very seriously, so I was dealing with a lot in that moment. I gave him the honest and vague answer of, “I don’t know.” He has kids my age, so I’m sure this wishy-washy behavior did not faze him.

The examination progressed further, with him asking him about my job as he took samples from my insides. I thought we were passed the uncomfortable bits after the gloves came off, but I was wrong. As he stood up from his little stool, he stopped with his hands ON MY KNEES. “You tell that boy to get on it already. I want to deliver all six of your babies.”

The six babies I get; that is his livelihood after all, but dude lay off! I will decide when to pressure my boyfriend into marrying me when I am good and ready, which I am not…at all.

He left me sitting on the table feeling vulnerable and violated and it wasn’t because of the speculum or the latex. I have never felt bad for not being settled at any age, but this appointment was much more scarring than the usual yearly check-up. Even if I wanted to let this little episode sway me into baby brains, it would have to compete with my reoccurring pregnancy nightmares, which typically keep me in check.

Now I have to think about my pap smear results and marriage timeline. Hopefully both come back normal!