My Vagina Monologue

Or, "Sisterhood of What's Traveling in Her Pants" ... sorry, that was the only other title that came to mind, but wow, it's way worse!

Don't be afraid/aroused -- no vaginas were photographed for this blog.
("Black Iris" - Georgia O'Keeffe)

Ladies, when was the last time you took out a hand mirror and gave yourself a good look. Y'know ... down there.

I actually used to do that quite regularly, to be honest. It was a good way to make sure things were copacetic, and, frankly, I'm quite fond of my lady parts. They've always treated me well and weren't too hard on the eye, in my and (many a' lovers) opinion.

[Yes, boys, they are most definitely "parts" and not "part" singular. The individual parts also have their own individual personalities, but that's a blog for another time.]

Anyway, back to what lead me to write this here entry...

A little while back, I watched a documentary called The Perfect Vagina in which a female filmmaker pursues the ideas and reasons behind how women relate to their own parts, culminating with women (and the filmmaker herself) taking a mirror and actually giving their genitals a long look and describing what they see, thus helping them to come to terms with other issues in their lives. It made me feel a little sad for the women who were terrified of that idea, but also made me realize that I hadn't done such a thing myself in a while.

...Hmm, a long while. When had I done it last, I wondered? Was I still involved with Dr. Jekyll? What was that, maybe three years ago or so? Had it really been that long?

It had been that long. I resolved then and there to remedy that post-haste, but post-haste got derailed by finding wedding things to pin to one of my boards on Pinterest ... which is yet another blog for another time, especially when you consider I was doing that without even having a boyfriend. Well, I had an imaginary boyfriend, sure, but you need one of those if you're going to have an imaginary wedding! Am I right?

[Disregard anything I wrote in that last paragraph, please.]

In the years since that last relationship, I hadn't really thought about that area "down there" because I had sort of "turned off" the whole idea of "sexy time." Do all of these excessive quotation marks make me seem "self conscious"?

I had even stopped masturbating* due to forgetting that area existed. If it wasn't for "that time of the month," I probably wouldn't have known I even had lady parts anymore. In my mind, the region would resemble a Barbie crotch ... or a Ken crotch; they're about the same. Basically, it was just the area that would start to go numb if I sat on it for too long, which is pretty much every day.

I'd forgotten to go check things out for many more weeks, until I suddenly found myself facing a new dating situation in which sex** was not only likely, it was imminent. The relationship just sort of "fell into my lap," so to speak, and I realized that said lap had been untended for too long. It was definitely going to need some "landscaping" at the very least, but maybe I should also take a closer look-see to make sure everything was still copacetic.

So I marched into my bathroom, stripped from the waist down, grabbed a trusty hand mirror, sat myself down on the floor, and took a peek. I was expecting to see the flower that I remembered so fondly: a lovely deep pink bud spiraling open, inviting much admiration and adoration.

What I saw, however, made me gasp loudly and exclaim, "Someone stole my vagina!" Or at least that's why I was thinking in exclamatory fashion.

The nearly two years of sitting on my "fanny" (as the Brits like to call it) all day at this desk job had not been kind. All that sitting atrophy was also compounded by absolutely no sexy time (or even any sexy thoughts) to get the blood flowing to that region in all that time. So what I was looking at was that sometime in the last three years I had somehow gotten old! Down there!

"I thought we had a deal! We were going to age gracefully together. Do you see my face? Of course you don't; you're too far away. Trust me, I do not look my age. How dare you break with our pact this way!"

Yes, I was speaking to my vagina ... well, the whole area, really.

My anger quickly gave way to guilt. "I'm sorry. This is from neglect, isn't it? I've given you no attention whatsoever in years. What was I expecting? I'm so very sorry! I am just awful, and I totally deserve this!" Then I got a little teary-eyed. Just a little. And then I started to giggle, because I was tearing up about my vagina. Who does that? I do, apparently ... but so did a bunch of women in that documentary, so I didn't feel that foolish. Suddenly, I understood. And yeah, maybe I did feel a little foolish.

I decided to take a closer look to embrace this new mature me. First I noticed that my pubic hair, which had been nearly black before, was getting lighter ... like a golden, reddish hue. Was that the way I was going gray?

Under that, the skin had changed colors, too -- from deep pink to a sort of deep purple. I wasn't too thrilled about that aspect. I mean, I love purple and could just consider it "exotic," but that was going to be tough to get used to ... basically, I just didn't recognize myself anymore.

Finally, when I turned the hand mirror over to the magnifying side, I saw wrinkles. Yes, wrinkles! DOWN THERE! Seriously!? I was no longer a pretty pink rose; I was now a dusty dried rose that someone had saved to remember some special occasion that no longer matters. My lady parts were becoming irrelevant! That simply would not stand, no siree.

I was so bewildered by this turn of events that I decided to tell my new soon-to-be-beau about this ... before we even met! Yes, I know that's nuts ... and yes, I know guys do not care about this one bit, but he needed to know what he was getting into ... not my vagina! My brain. I felt it was important that he see how I faced that situation, the silly thought processes that I went through, and ultimately how I was coming to be okay with it because, "Hey, look, I can talk about it and laugh, see!"

He just seemed completely confused by the whole conversation and decided the best form of action was to talk me down off some metaphorical ledge. I thought his response was sweet at the time, but I assured him that I really wasn't asking for the psych couch. I was just wanting him to see how (adorably) neurotic I could be, but it was the benign kind of neurotic ... like a female Woody Allen, without any inappropriate attraction to youngsters.

I'm not sure he ever got that, however. It was almost the same "talk her down from the ledge" reaction I got from him when I admitted (full of squirmy, uncomfortable embarrassment) that I had a board on Pinterest with things for an imaginary wedding. Clearly, my neurotic brand of comedy failed to register as humor with that one.

But guess what? It all makes for okay blog fodder, no? That is, if you haven't navigated away from this already in disgust, I s'pose. Some may have navigated away by now because they were disappointed in the lack of graphic pictures. Sorry, boys (and some girls)! It's not that kind of blog.

Just what kind of blog is it? Self-flagellation with a rubber chicken, perhaps.

*Yes, girls do that, too!

**Unexpected bonus of sex: having it can have a "fountain of youth" effect ... down there!

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Next time on The She-Creature Speaks: My imaginary boyfriend.