Ahhh, a relaxing moment alone. Kids are napping, animals are nowhere to be seen—it’s just me, myself and… my vagina.
At first, I thought I was hearing things, just a faint smacking sound as I walked down the hallway, laundry in arms. Maybe I stepped on a sticky patch with my bare foot? Upon further investigation I discovered the noise was coming from my crotch region. It can’t be! I thought to myself. My vagina can speak!
You might be wondering why I’d speak publicly about this decidedly humiliating topic? The same reason I talk about all of the other jacked-up shit my body has been through. I’m ashamed and I feel like my value as a woman got thrown out with the placenta and umbilical cord of my firstborn child. There was long stretch of time when the shame took me over and I walked around feeling like a shell of my former self. The stretch marks, the sagging, the pooch, the loosey-goosey vagina… I was now the butt of America’s great joke.
Joke… I’ll make my own goddamn joke, I thought! I could feel the heaviness begin to dissipate as I wrote and wrote and wrote about my body, my shame and my struggle to feel like I have value in this shallow world. I knew my humor would be inappropriate to some, offensive to many and downright disgusting to others, but I didn’t care. It has become my lifeline to sanity and by claiming my shame I’ve been able to shed the greasy residue of self-loathing and disgust it once left all over me.
So in the spirit of healing through confession, let me tell you about my body. Not only does my vagina speak three languages but my belly button has its own disappearing act, my nipples need their very own bra and my stomach flesh has the extraordinary ability to cover my waistband like a warm and cuddly blanket. Amazing, I know.
I think the worst part of having the condition otherwise known as genitalia garrulous, is wondering if others can hear my vagina making it’s way through the world. I often play out imaginary scenes in my head that involve me being humiliated by a vagina “smack attack.” Some of my favorite scenarios involve me as a single woman on a date, trying to disguise my unfortunate chattering box with amazingly clever cover-ups. Let me set the scene for you…
I’m single and on a first date with a man I met on-line. We’re walking through the park in the crisp fall air, leaves falling all around us.
“…and so that’s when I just knew that I needed to…”
“Um, sorry to interrupt, Jill, but I keep hearing this noise—do you hear that? It sounds like someone is eating pudding…”
“Oh, uh, yes, I’ve heard it too. I think the lining of my shoe is coming unstuck from the sole. It’s been doing that for a week now.”
Amiright? It’s like trying to tell someone you have an STD, only slightly better. Thank God I’m married.
Should you also be a sufferer of vagina verbosium, take heart. You are not alone. Don’t put a muffler on your muffin—take pride in that tri-lingual tuna! We’ve survived the battle of childbirth, and coochie confessions whispered from the pants of women everywhere are setting a new precedent: “I am woman, hear me (and my vagina) ROAR.”
This original piece by Jill Pond was written exclusively for In the Powder Room, a division of Hold My Purse Productions, LLC. Featured image © depositphotos.com/slphotography.
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