I love being a woman.
Make-up’s awesome (it covers up pimples and stuff), and so are clothes (Mark Twain said, “Clothes make the man. Naked people have little to no influence in society”), and, though I might sound (even more) completely frivolous, so is nail polish. I’m typing this right now with Fuchsia Fusion fingernails; I feel a little thrill every time I see the bright pink against the jet black keyboard.
I occasionally feel briefly – but poignantly – sad for guys, because they don’t get to appreciate the simple things in life like we do. Though they do play with their, you know, junk, a lot. And I mean a lot. That’s simple behaviour in a dof way.
And, again like simpletons, they find farting really funny (I don’t get it). Anyway, I’m going off track. My point is that I like being a woman – except for one thing. The va-jay-jay.
Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t want a penis… except that I kind of do.
Hang on! Let me explain before you vomit a little in your mouth.
Penises are very user-friendly. Peeing standing up? Genius! And you don’t get issues with penises. They just kind of dangle there and do their thing with very little user involvement (aside from the constant and, I imagine, annoying hand down the pants). Also, it’s damn easy to plonk penis replicas everywhere. There are a gazillion phallic shaped buildings over the world, hell – even trees are a little phallic. Ever seen a vagina shaped building? Me neither.
|Penis.||Penis.||Penii (the lesser known plural of ‘penis’).|
But lady parts? Lady parts (I guess, a little like ladies) are complicated. The bit we see is just the tip of the iceberg. The important parts are invisible to the naked eye (again, a bit like real ladies. Gosh, I’m just full of gender stereotypes today, aren’t I?). Lady parts even have their own special doctor – now that’s high maintenance!
The reason I’m thinking about this is because I made the necessary trip to the gynae last week. I know men walk around proudly strutting their stuff and slyly (though, also, often blatantly) comparing dick sizes, but it’s different for woman. And I guess way more awkward to compare va-jay-jay’s. I don’t know what we’d compare, firstly, and, in fact, I want to stop thinking about that right now.
What I’m trying (rather ineptly) to say is that the thought of someone fiddling down their, checking the mechanics (a bit like popping the hood of the car) is kind of gross and invasive. Necessary, yes, I know! And before ya’ll get all feminist on my ass, I’m not dissing female parts or being a woman, OK? I just don’t like going to the gynae.
This was my first trip as, I’m going to say it, a woman, living alone in a new city. It was kind of like going to the mechanic in that I had rather minimal knowledge about what was going on in the, well, uterine area and trusted her to do her thing and let me know if I needed an oil change or something (yes yes, it’s not a perfect analogy).
|Though it IS this complicated.|
The first thing I had to deal with was choosing a gynae. I got two numbers from my GP, one for a man doctor and one for a female lady doctor. So, man, or woman?
I don’t know, but the thought of a man giving me a double thumbs up on how my engines are running didn’t exactly fill me with joy. A friend of mine went to a male gynaecologist and said he was pleasantly “asexual”, but nonetheless, stranger dude, keep your hands to yourself. So Dr Lady B it was.
My trip started rather exhaustingly and unsurprisingly with me getting horribly, horribly lost in the CBD. After parking what felt like an Everest-like distance away and frenetically wondering the streets of the CBD like a crazy person, I arrived, panting (and 20 minutes late) to her offices.
The brisk secretary gave me a cold smile, like sunshine on a winter’s day, and efficiently handed me a form to fill in. No surprises there. However, I was surprised when she also handed me a small plastic cup so I could give her a urine sample. I smiled nervously and asked for a glass of water (then forgot to pee in the damn thing on my way out, leading to some awkward questions from Mr Tall when he found the cup in my bag and wanted to know what tests I was going for).
After filling in the form, Dr Lady B called me in, asking a lot of (very personal, but blah blah necessary) questions about my sexual activities. Afterwards I had to change into a robe for the other tests. She did a breast examination while discussing my career in a valiant attempt at small chat.
And that’s where this narrative ends!
But no matter how many gynae trips I need, or how complicated lady parts are, or anything else – the fact is, I still like being a woman.
We have breasts! Oh yeah, and the whole carrying-a-baby thing.
And Fuchsia Fusion fingernails. Boo-yah!