Vagina Birthdays

Sure, you look all peaceful now. Just wait til the day you can’t bend over to pick something up without wetting yourself.

Everybody thinks birthdays are so sweet and awesome. Well, okay, I admit that maybe people living in the gutter or who are basically being karma’s whipping boy at this stage in their lives may not think birthdays are all that awesomesauce, but generally speaking the people I come in contact with tend to see the glass-half-full when it comes to birthdays.

What no one realizes is that for every birthday in the universe, there is some woman who is commemorating the event by remembering how amazing her lady garden used to be. Past tense. Was.

I actually don’t remember thinking about my hooha all that much (well, except for the obvious times when I was supposed to be concentrating on my hooha) before that fateful day twelve years ago when I suddenly found myself feet in the air, having everyone from the ultrasound tech down to the custodian coming in my ugly industrial room to “check me” during the labor and delivery of my firstborn. After the fact, though, all women begin thinking about their cooterlands a lot, mostly starting with those first few days when we think, “So, when does it stop resembling ground beef?”

I am pleased to announce that vajajays are universally resilient little things and that all is mostly well, except that I am too young to have to cross my legs when I sneeze.

(author’s note: the comments section on this post will be closed to anything resembling a description of how to do Kegel exercises.)

(more author’s note: my spellchecker is taking issue with the word “Kegel,” which means the spell checker was designed by a sexist woman-hating man who doesn’t want women doing crotch crunches to make their girl parts pretty again.)

(still more author’s note: just to prove my sexism theory, I typed “prostate” and “testicle exercises” and the spell check had no problem with those terms…everything’s a plot, I swear.)

What was I talking about? Oh yeah. Happy Birthday, sweetie!

(another author’s note: Dear First Born, when you forget to put away the dishes like I told you to six times, my revenge is to write a blog post for the entire internet about you emerging from the womb and shredding my privates on your way out that door. Do the dishes next time. Love ya!)