I appreciate my vagina. I do.
This thought kept going through my head as I used the bathroom in the Vegas airport during my layover cause damn it, I appreciate my vagina. I do.
I was flying solo, which meant I was getting drunk solo, which led to ordering Burger King solo. And, then I realized, I'm a goddamn champion. And, it's because of my vagina.
My vagina keeps me sane. If my vagina's healthy, I'm healthy. If my vagina feels good, I feel good. If someone messes with my vagina, I’ll fuckin’ kill you.
But, it didn’t always used to be that way. I didn’t always appreciate my vagina. There was a time when I hated my vagina.
I grew up in a house with 3 brothers. My mom took incredible care of us- we’re very close- but anything pertaining to, or in mention of the vagina was off limits. Not because my mom was being neglectful; it was because I’d rather get my leg gnawed off slowly by an army of angry mice than to have to look at a simple, hand-drawn diagram of my fallopian tubes. Ew. I got home from school, and my mom said, “Emily”, and waved me into the kitchen. I sat down awkwardly on a stool at our island table, like omg, what is it mom. She scribbled something onto an index card and slowly slid it in front of me. It was a very simply drawn picture of a uterus. The f*ck is wrong with you?! is what I wanted to say. Instead, I looked up with an expression of full on hatred. I don’t know if you’ve seen a tiny, prepubescent girl in the shape of a twig turn into a raging baby alcoholic, but I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what happened. I’d been successfully pushing off this conversation since my grandma bought me a bra for christmas when I was 9. The f*ck is wrong with you?!
My mom quickly rattled off the briefest explanation as to what a period is, and why I will want to kill myself. She did this because she knew, based on past experience, that she had about 5 seconds before I got pissed and started throwing shit, and bolted for the closest door or open window. I didn't wanna talk about it!
I don’t know if it’s because I wasn’t used to talking about female stuff, or because I just wanted to be one of the guys, but I felt super weird about it. My mom eventually resorted to getting one of those period books about Sally accidentally getting period blood on her gym uniform and having to ask her friend to borrow a tampon. It was in one of those books that I learned how to put in my own tampon. It was also in one of those books that I learned my boobs might not fully develop until the age of 18. I had time.
However, I did have a slight change of heart once my friends started getting their periods, and marking their calendars. And then I was like F*ck. When am I gonna get mine?! Oh, I got it. 4 years later. Then I got braces, almost simultaneously. Then some kid in Chemistry said I had hairy arms. High school was good.
At this point, I wanted to know more, more than just the basic period stuff. More about my vagina. But, for some reason I still couldn’t talk about it. Then college happened, and ya know, ya get drunk. And you eat mcdonald’s sitting on a curb, and ya pass out on a couch next to a hairy dude wearing a pair of fairy wings. You maybe kiss a girl for the first time. Maybe you like it, maybe you don’t, maybe you’re too drunk to know. Then you start to see this guy, not the hairy dude, another guy, a cuter guy, and you have sex. For the first time. And, you make him wear two condoms at once just to make sure. And, then after two periods and 3 pregnancy tests, you still think maybe you’re pregnant because you “feel” like maybe you’re pregnant and it doesn’t matter that 3 tests came back negative or that now you’ve had 3 periods. But the worst part is, you feel dirty. And not in the good way. And then he never texts you back.
That’s when I started talking. I just, I needed some answers and there was no way in hell I wasn't gonna talk to my mom, so my roomie- my best friend - became my therapist, and my own instant pocket comedian. She’s the best. Things got better, and I started to appreciate my vagina.
When I got older, the subject of my vagina was later replaced with finances. I still won’t talk about em, but I’ll talk about my vaginaaa all damn day.
Here's another weird piece by Emily Dorsett. I can say that because I am her. Enjoy.