An article in the Star today is entitled “Five easy ways to a happier, healthier vagina.” It begins, “We often ask ourselves, ‘Am I happy?’ But when was the last time you asked your vagina the same thing?”
The millenial writer describes going to a “vagina painting party,” where women gathered to evoke their own vaginas in paint, papier maché, and other media. She kindly offers a colour photograph of her own fine effort, looking like a gash on canvas displayed in her living room between two potted plants. When visitors comment, she replies,”Yes, that’s my vagina. Isn’t she beautiful?” She suggests we host our own party and that we get an app that helps with kegel exercises. “All you do is insert the sleek device and connect the app on your phone. Anytime you squeeze your pelvic muscles, a little gem on your screen moves up and down.”
Okay, so there are times when I feel REALLY OLD, and this is one of them. An app for when you squeeze your pelvic muscles? And can you imagine a “penis painting party”? Men gathered to celebrate their penises? One on display in the living room, with the man saying, “Yes, that’s my penis, isn’t he handsome?”
Ye gods. Of course, we could say that the entire planet is built on our admiration for penises, one way or another. Or for the region’s by-product, testosterone.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, where the owner of his particular vagina has not spoken to her nether regions in many a moon – sorry, girl – it was a difficult 24 hours. Anna was in Nova Scotia, so Eli spent much of Sunday and today here. But I was not feeling well, with both back pain and a nascent cold or flu, aching limbs and scratchy throat. Dealing with his phenomenal energy is hard at the best of times, but when not up to the task – really hard. And he had a blister on one hand which made playground time, which wears him out, painful.
However, stories, tons of salmon, rice, and avocado, and ice cream, and pancakes, and the movie “Detective Pikachu” with a trillion special effects which is really about how much we miss our fathers, especially when that dad turns out to be (spoiler alert) Ryan Reynolds, and best of all, a Lego firetruck I’d bought at Doubletake and stashed away – it took us both a concentrated hour or more, following the chart and putting on little bits and pieces, he methodical and quick, like his dad – saved the day.
Mama is back now, pining for the fresh air of Nova Scotia; the boys are safely back at home, and I wonder if my back pain is going to go away. Was it related to anxiety about my daughter’s absence or Eli’s stay? Or the fact that my ex-husband is coming to stay here for five nights later this week? Or my ongoing debt from the reno? I have no idea where it came from and why it lingers, only that it can’t depart soon enough. My poor neglected vagina needs a good talking-to.