Otherwise titled: Who Needs an X-Box When You Have the V-Box?
Or just “V-Box” for short.
I also played with “My Vagina is Wired”.
Really, there are just so many possibilities.
But I think you should be warned right here and right now – this post is going to be filled to the brim with the v-word.
Which is arguably far better than the c-word.
And in my opinion, also easier on the mouth, ears, and eyes than the p-word.
Back on point though.
We were talking about my vagina.
And it’s superior strength.
I had vagina-therapy this morning. I had it last week as well, but we weren’t exactly able to accomplish much with me at the level of pain I was at. She pretty much just massaged my stomach for half an hour (which was weird) and then called it a day.
Today though… Well, today she pulled out the big guns.
Literally.
Today, the vagina-therapist told me she wanted to try a little bio-feedback with my cootchie (to be clear – that is not the c-word I was referring to earlier).
I had no idea what she was talking about when she mentioned this. Until she pulled out a baggy. A baggy with a probe inside that looked suspiciously like the bullet. Only, this bullet came equipped with a long wire and a computer hookup.
Five minutes later, my vagina was wired.
Literally.
The goal of the bio-feedback was apparently to get some idea of just how much I am actually capable of releasing those muscles, and what it is I can do to attempt to facilitate that relaxation.
I know it's a noble cause, but... the entire setup was just ridiculous. And when she finally said to me “You should see the look on your face right now” as I attempted to follow her instructions without laughing, I couldn’t help it. I looked right at her and I said “I’m just thinking about what a great story this is going to make.”
As awkward, and uncomfortable, and bizarre as the whole thing was - I couldn't help but think about how much fun I was going to have retelling it.
How's that for twisted?
So there we were. Me lying back on the therapy table, and the vagina-therapist sitting next to me with her laptop. Her laptop, which my vagina was conveniently plugged into.
We started off simple. Breathing and a few kegel’s – just so that I could get used to watching the line on the screen that was supposed to depict how tightly my muscles were clenching.
At my most relaxed, I was able to get down to a 3. But mostly, I hung out around a 5.
For the record – I have no idea what these numbers stand for or mean.
The vagina therapist told me that most people are at about a 1 when they’re relaxed.
Which just tells us what we already know – my cootchie is in a constant state of clench.
But then she had me start flexing those muscles. She said that most people should be able to hit a 12-15 when they are trying.
I consistently hit up in the 20 zone.
Which leads me to the title of this post.
My vagina is stronger than your vagina.
If we were to have an ultimate vagina fighting championship, my vagina would win.
And if we were to create a video game version of this little scenario (the aptly named V-Box) where handheld controllers were replaced with –well, you know – no one would be able to touch my high score.
My vagina is stronger than your vagina.
Perhaps not something I should be proud of, given the fact that the state of those muscles has everything to do with the trauma of this disease, but… Sometimes we just have to take our wins where we can get them.
And I’m kind of disturbingly proud of my own cootchie strength right now.
I of course called the devirginator immediately after my appointment to tell him all.
He listened, he laughed, and then he went on to explain that at Disneyland, there are these machines where you put a quarter in and squeeze to test your own strength. He said that if it got me this excited to see how strong I was, he would happily put a quarter into one of them for me when we’re there for his birthday in just a few weeks.
I told him that I wouldn’t sit on it.
Which is when he called me filthy and questioned the sanity of any guy who ever ends up with me.
And I just laughed.
Told him that’s why he loves me.
Because I’m like a dude.
Except with a super strong vagina.
He strongly encouraged me not to have this same conversation with the boy.
But the whole time, he was laughing hysterically.
So I’m thinking he doesn’t really know what he’s talking about.
At the end of the day; this disease has left me broken, beaten, and shattered inside.
It has taken away my ability to have children, left me with a bit more pudge around the middle than I ever had before, and turned me into a girl who finds herself hurting more than she would ever care to admit.
None of it is cool. Or attractive. Or part of what makes me a catch.
But my super strong vagina?
I’m pretty sure that’s something worth bragging about.
And even if it isn’t – what do I care?
Sometimes, you just have to be able to laugh.
And today, I did a lot of laughing.
ADSPACE
