I've come to the conclusion that if men had vaginas, they would die.
We can debate back and forth about if men could actually carry and deliver a baby all day. That's just a piece of the puzzle. I'm talking about the every day care that goes into having a vagina. The surprises, the intrigue, the spontaneity of being a woman. Yeah, I'm pretty sure they would die.
I was talking to my neighbor last week, a male one, and don't worry my husband was there too, and we got on the subject of waxing. As you can tell I talk in real life just like I write on this blog. Anyway, we got on the subject of waxing and I was telling them they should come with me next time and get a little taken off the "top". We were having a good laugh, when my neighbor mentioned that there was no way in hell he would let anyone take a look at his "junk". Before I could even laugh I said, "You'd die if you were a woman".
Let's face it, most of us have been laying on tables with our feet in stir-ups for years. We never even questioned it. If men had to go in and have a "smear" of any kind, they would drop dead at sixteen. The mere mention of the word "smear" makes my husbands skin crawl. In our pre-teen and teen days, not only did we have to worry about hairy legs and underarms, but we also had to worry about "starting" at school. As if we'd all experience it like "Carrie", in the showers after P.E. while mean bitches threw tampons and pads at our heads. There were the social indignities of being a late bloomer, or being that girl in P.E. with a bra that rivaled our mother's. The embarrassment of the "changing of the guard" in the restroom between classes, because the crinkle of a feminine product wrapper is unmistakable. There is no other sound like it in the world.
But we survive that shit. Because we are women, with vaginas. We are tough, and we weather the storms of embarrassment. Like the time your backpack spilled open at your locker and while you were picking up your pads, a cute guy walked by and saw you, and then you saw him avert his eyes as if seeing a pad in a rose colored wrapper would blind him for life. I'll admit, that is a true story. We have carried around sweatshirts and sweaters in the likely event that we need to tie them around our waists. We always have some type of extra feminine product in our purses, and perhaps now, if you are like me, you don't even hide that shit. The only draw back to that is sometimes you find a tampon out of it's wrapper in the bottom of your purse. And that usually happens when you need that last said tampon.
As women we get to the point that we are beyond embarrassment. We are beyond being coy and blushing at the indignities of being a woman. Because having a period isn't the only thing that we will be cursed with. If and when we decide to have babies, we will have a doctor who will at any given time take a look down under. Have you ever had a vaginal ultrasound? It's uncomfortable to say the least, but it could also be considered a sexual assault if you think about about it. Then you have to talk about dilatation and waters and your bloody show. I shit you not, there is something called "Bloody Show". It's not an off Broadway production by Lena Dunham either, in case you are wondering.
I'll never forget the day Caitlin was born, and my nurse, a nice man with years of experience, put his gloved hand under my bed linens to check my progress. The look on the Hubbs face was priceless, while I just laid there as if this was something that happened all the time. It doesn't, trust me, but what kind of reaction is that? Oh hey Mr. Nurse Man, I just met you ten minutes ago, sure, go ahead and tell me how much I'm dilated. I'm telling you, this is because we are trained to do so. By the time we have children, we've had our vaginas looked at so many times by doctors and the like that we don't even fight it. We just roll on our sides and say "Can I get the drugs now, please?".
I'm convinced if men had to deal with a vagina on a daily basis, they would quit life. The Hubbs thinks there would be more kids in the world, but I don't believe that shit. One cramp, one contraction, one morning waking up in a literal pool of their own blood would make them quit life. Then to have to keep and care for one? Pads, tampons, waxing, "smears", and ultrasounds... There is no way. My husband still can't touch a pad, in it's original wrapping, unused, to this day. Even after watching me push out two kids. The idea, the mystery, the unknown worlds of the vagina are still frightening.
I'm sure it really does hurt to get kicked in the balls, they should be glad that's the only thing that could side line them. Let's be honest here, I've only touched on the physical aspects of being a woman and having a vagina, we haven't even talked about the emotional side. The Hubbs asked me if I could imagine if two guys had their periods and got in a fight at a bar. I laughed and we decided that they would fight, then hold each other and cry, then binge eat all the carbs, and finally become best friends. If that ain't the truth I don't know what is.
Who really is the weaker sex? We may never know, but I know this. I can do anything. I can run a marathon if I choose. I can cook a gourmet meal. I can have my kids and bring home the bacon too. I can do anything, because I can bleed for seven days and not die. I can lie on a table and have the "smear". I can even get waxed within an inch of my life.
I have a vagina, what's your superpower?
