Sunday, June 24, 2012


*Authors Note: This blog is intended for mature audiences only. And by mature I mean, I'm going to say the word vagina a lot and if you can't handle that you may want to click on any other link you can find.*

About a week and a half ago I went to see The Vagina Monologues with some friends. 
It. Was. So. Good. Eve Ensler, author of the monologues, is a goddess.
Seriously. I had read them and participated in performing them with the campus women's center in college but these ladies really did it up. The cast ranged in age from 23-80 and I must say, the 80-year old kind of stole the show for me. She was adorable and her story was a little sad. I wanted to take her home with me but kidnapping cast members is frowned upon and let's face it, I don't know how to take care of an 80-year lady. I can barely handle feeding myself and my pets.

Last night I was reminded of the show in a way I hadn't expected. It all started when Jacob and I decided to go in the hot tub. A little unusual for me considering it's June and I hate all things hot or hot related in the summer time but I figured I could walk on the wild side. As we sat there I couldn't help but relax and feel the tension melting away thanks to the heat and jets massaging my back. This enjoyment lasted approximately seven minutes. Because about then I realized I was really freaking hot. Like, lobster hot. We just got the tub and haven't quite found the right temperature setting and it appears that the water was 104-105 degrees. Yeah, HOT.

No big deal, I thought, I'll just get out. Only, even thirty minutes after getting out, I was still sweating. I'm very sensitive to heat ever since I diagnosed myself with heat stroke during my internship back in college. I went to the Hartt School of Music for my undergrad degree and my major was Performing Arts Management. I scored an amazing internship at Sony Music in Boston largely thanks to my boyfriend at the time's family connections. (I totally made them proud - I got an A!)
For this internship I had to live in Boston for the summer. Actually, I lived in Woburn, a suburb just outside the city as living in the actual city of Boston would have cost a fortune and my parents stubbornly refused to win the lottery or take out a second mortgage on the house. So there I was, home sweet Woburn, living in a tiny apartment in a duplex filled with rented furniture and Indian families. They were very sweet neighbors, however, the house permanently and constantly without end smelled of curry. To this day I cannot eat Indian food. I'm sure it's delicious but when it pervades your life (and your clothes and furniture) 24-7, it loses its appeal.
That summer it just so happened that there was an extremely intense heat wave. Our landlords claimed the apartment came with air conditioning. They lied. There was an air conditioner in the window but it poured out cool-ish air at best. Our apartment was on the second floor and the families downstairs never stopped cooking. Mmm...steamy curry smell. Rubbing salt in the wound... 
My boyfriend had the luck to be gone on a trip during said heat wave. I, however, was stuck there. One day, the temperatures rose to about 102 degrees outside with 100% humidity. Inside my apartment, however, it was easily 115 at least. I wish I were exaggerating but I sincerely believe this report to be accurate. I spent as much time at the office as possible, leaving there around 8:00 that night in an attempt to wait out the heat so my apartment would be tolerable. 

Attempt not successful.

I sat outside and read as long as I could and when I finally decided to turn in for the night it was past 11:00. My expectation that the apartment would be tolerable by then was not met in the slightest as the air conditioner wheezed out its pathetic breeze in the living room. I positioned a box fan to blow directly on me and fell into a fitful sleep. I awoke about 2 hours later sweating, nauseous, and dizzy. The air conditioner had completely shit the bed and was blowing out hot air. Into my already sweating apartment. I did the only thing I could do, I crawled my way out of bed and into the bathtub where I ran cool water and laid under the shower until I felt my body temperature fall back into the tolerable zone. I wet a towel, opened all the windows and attempted to go back to sleep. I awoke again as soon as the towel warmed up and was even more nauseous and dizzy. Back into the shower I went. 

I don't know why my next move occurred to me but I'm pretty sure it was the smartest thing I've ever done. I decided to ditch the pj bottoms and panties completely in the hopes my lady business would somehow act as a vent for my internal volcanic temperature.
It fucking worked.

My vagina saved my life. She fucking rules.

I sincerely don't know what made me think of it. Especially considering I had virtually no knowledge of the vagina during my growing up years. I knew that girls had one and boys didn't. I somehow failed to put things together despite my mother's special talk, given to me while shopping at Caldor, in the sixth grade. Yeah, yeah, girls got their periods and it was yucky. Okay, fine, whatever. That did not immediately apply to me.  Therefore, it was filed away somewhere in my brain to be taken out at a later time.
I surely didn't understand or ask about much of anything else. I honestly didn't know babies came out of there until I was in like, 7th grade and just so happened to have an Ah-ha! moment sometime after I got my period. I didn't even know what it was when it showed up by the way. I just thought I was either dying or had somehow had an accident of the doody variety magically, without realizing anything had happened. Sigh.
Seriously. Sorry Mom, maybe you shouldn't have attempted such an important discussion while I was distracted by the wonder of flannel vests and Keds. I had the attention span of a gnat. Or a teenage girl in a store with lots of stuff to distract me. 
To further explain my lack of understanding of the birthing process, I had tried to puzzle it out for years because I didn't want to ask somebody and look stupid. So I just ignored that question and decided it was probably something to do with the belly button. I didn't want to think about that too much because belly buttons freaked me out. And still do. I don't know why. Just don't ever touch it because I will go ape shit on your ass like you have never seen. As they'd say in Fifty Shades, that is a hard limit and non-negotiable. Because it is icky Goddammit.

So last night when I found myself sweating and unable to cool down as quickly as I wanted I remembered my venting technique with fondness. I didn't actually have to re-enact it but I was briefly tempted. Because ever since that night being too hot makes me feel incredibly ill and I do not handle pain or discomfort well. I am a wussy pants. Which is why I share my story with you today. In case of emergency, ladies, you know what to do.

You are welcome.
Respect the va-jay-jay ladies and gentlemen folks.
She is one bad mamma-jamma.

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