I am not a modest woman.
I am writing about my vagina for fucks sake. But still it is tough times on the table, and I am not yet in the stirrups.
I sit in my miserable paper robe, called “huge” by the chipper weighing woman, but barely closing with its mismatched ties. It doesn’t have enough slack to cover me.
When the MD breezes in she is younger than I am. This should not be a surprise, but it is. She sits on her wheelie chair and leans against the wall casually. She is inviting me to confide in her.
Here is my list: strange growths in private places (I’m so glad I have a husband), leaking pee when I sneeze, cough, laugh or exercise (that’s it, no more exercise), perpetually lumpy breast tissue (super appealing).
She shrugs off the bumpy breasts as she feels me up. Peering down and then up my gown I see her shiny hair without a touch of grey as she assesses my garden of growth. She is complimentary about the thorough type and distribution of my skin abnormalities, but pronounces them benign and moves on to the main event.
The pap-smear is the best part. Except of course when she says “Lots of pressure, lots and lots of pressure” and I can just make out a dull sensation.
“Have you heard of vaginal mesh?” she asks, her head between my legs.
“Why yes, I have always wanted to use my vagina as an excuse to both sew and sue.”
“Right” she replies. “Let’s wait until they have worked out some of the lawsuits…you will get much worse and then maybe it will be worth the risk.”
“Oh yes!” she sings back at me with enthusiasm. “Most people talk about the mood swings, the hot flashes and the lower libido, but the most pronounced part of menopause is the atrophy of vaginal muscles.”
It is not every day that I feel this sexy.
Later, when my husband has me laughing in (and wetting) our bed after somehow managing to come in my cave of a vagina I feel grateful for my moderately-saggy vagina and its small amount of pee.
Things could be worse. Turns out my vagina is not yet a total slacker.