Is Your Vagina a Fixer-Upper?
The other day I asked my husband how I was looking “down there”. He thought about it for a minute, and then used the words, “homey, charming and slightly rustic” to describe my womanly real estate.
Apparently my vagina is a fixer-upper. What was once the jewel of the neighborhood has turned into a shabby lean-to with an overgrown lawn and a leak problem.
Now I’m sitting here on the couch with my laptop wondering what I should do about it? Should I embrace it’s warm feelings of home-cooked meals and echoes of children’s laughter? Or is it time for a complete overhaul?
I put my browser into incognito mode, because I seriously do not need enhanced vagina ads chasing me all over the internet, and then I do a little search.
“Vaginal Rejuvenation”
It seems I have a few options:
Option #1: Back my truck WAY up and put the good old hymen back in place. Tempting? Let’s see… I remember nervous laughs, fumbling, pawing and a final act that arrives before I even get seated. No. Not tempting. Not at all.
Option #2: Buccal (oral) mucosa. My husband couldn’t imagine a better renovation plan if he tried. Basically, they take some tissue from inside your cheek, as in face, and move it down to shore up the walls of the love canal. So… If I opt for this one can I get credit for a BJ every time we have sex? Tempting… but no. Because ick.
Option #3: The good old labiaplasty. A few snips here, some extra support beams there and suddenly my hooha is ready to be shown off at parties. Just one minor problem: decreased sensation. Aww man, you have GOT to be kidding me. What’s the point of building a mcmansion if I gotta sleep on a blow-up mattress inside it?
Option #4: I don’t have any clue what option 4 is because I accidentally clicked on the image search tab and now I’m clawing my eyeballs out.
I could start with a snip, and a stitch, and move on to a nip, and a tuck; round it out with a lift, and then tone and shine the whole package up with collagen and botox injections. I’d be a blow-up doll with the pleasure sensations to match. But let’s face it, no matter how much reconstructing I do, the lot that this vagina is sitting on is showing its age.
I pop up to the loo to take a gander at the old girl and see if there might be a slightly less invasive solution I could consider. A few minutes with the weed-wacker, a couple of coats of shimmer body paint and I’m starting to feel like a new old woman.
Maybe I have this all wrong. My vagina is not a fixer-upper. It’s a family home, full of character, rich with history, and, most importantly, the only damn place my husband is guaranteed to find comfort on a cold night.
Lynn Morrison is a smart-ass American raising two prim princesses with her obnoxiously skinny Italian husband in Oxford, England. If you’ve ever hidden pizza boxes at the bottom of the trash or worn maternity pants when not pregnant, chances are you’ll like her blog The Nomad Mom Diary. You can also find Lynn over on Facebook, Twitter and in the awesome new book ‘I Just Want to Be Alone’.
