or How my dog drove me to get Botox.
In past years having my period at work meant I regularly employed the old tampon up your sleeve on the way to the rest room routine. But of late I take a different tack. In my dotage, I march towards the restroom twirling my tampon like a baton. If I could light the thing on fire, throw it up in the air, and catch it with my vagina, I’d do that too. Because at this stage of my endless peri-menopause, where making it through the night with only one dripping-wet night sweat is a victory – anything that screams to the world I’M NOT ALL DRIED UP YET is a good thing.
Because the world thinks I’m old.
Even my dog. My dog doesn’t eat my underwear anymore. This is good news, I know. But still.
The internet thinks I’m old, too. A baby wearing an “I Wrecked my Mom’s Vagina.” T-shirt showed up in my inbox the other day. It was an ad for a re-vagination spa. Evidently, re-vagination is a thing, “including v-lightening, v-tightening, and o-shot”. (I have no idea what that last one is, and quite honestly, I’m afraid to find out. After all, if that infant could wreck a vagina, who knows what else he’s capable of.)
I can’t decide which is worse: that there are enough women in the world worried about their aging vajayjays that this spa exists, or that internet marketers, with their vast and ever-growing knowledge of the deepest truth of my being, determined that re-vagination was something I’d be interested in.
Because the internet thinks I’m old.Continue Reading
