The one where my vagina broke

While it is not customary to put footnotes at the head of a post, it’s probably necessary here.

Footnote 1 - If you clicked through to this post because you salivated at the gynaecologically correct term for my Lady Envelope, you need to click away now to avoid disappointment. It’s not that sort of post and no photographs of anyone’s vagina has been posted here.

Footnote 2 - Dear sensitive reader, vagina is the gynaecologically correct term for my Lady Envelope and is not used to offend those with or without vaginas…or front bottoms.

Footnote 3 - ‘Lady Envelope’ because my mother always warned me to keep down there sealed. A fun fact.

Footnote 4 - This post is about fear, not necessarily fear of vaginas, although since mine sprouted grey hairs recently I am very fearful as to what other tricks it has up its sleeve.

Footnote 5 - No vagina should look like a sleeve. On reflection, I am very scared of my vagina.

End of footnotes.

So, I was fearful the other day I had broken my vagina because the top of my leg which slots into the area near the vagina refused to work when I stood up.

I felt a little like those plastic dolls most of us had when we were growing up that had detachable arms and legs – and which we all detached because we were little gits. Do you also recall how it was nigh impossible to get that arm or leg shoved back in again? And how the more we tried with the frantic pushing how it started to distort Barbie’s plastic vagina and the top of the leg that refused to go back in became crushed and useless?

Okay, that was me this week. I had broken the arms and legs of my vagina.

Not that I use my vagina for much anymore, except perhaps to store the odd packet of peas when the fridge voluntarily defrosts, but still one likes to keep the thing tidy in case of an unexpected drive by assault.

Again, though, this post is not about vaginas per se, albeit I have spent three fourths of it plumbing its depths, but is about the fear of flying. My daughter’s fear of flying and which she is undertaking solo as I write this post about my vagina sleeve. We are in different time zones and writing through the night is my way of coping until I know she has landed safely. Hence this rather bizarre post about my broken vagina.

Added to which, I am hoping that on landing and reading this post, she will be so fearful of what I might write next time she flies, she will curb that fear and be forever cured.

Or at least hold onto her vagina lest it drop to the plane floor through laughing.

I’m imagining a laughing vagina all up in Virgin’s Economy Class has to be way more scary than a silly little ol’ plane ride.

HMS HerMelness Speaks

 

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