The cramps have begun. Between my oil and giant pills, the pain game is being played. I have been fighting with my damn uterus since the adolescent scandal of 13. In spite of the fact that I have a bikini wax scheduled for the morning, my menstrual cycle has decided to arrive and make my left boob feel like an alien has invaded my body. The ginger candy and hot fudge topping round out my dinner. I wonder if my monthly pain payments and period regimen (sleeping on top of towels, dark colors, all kinds of pads filling my purse, etc.), are accepted as a deposit towards pregnancy. Mother Nature needs to sit down with us and explain this. Women get upset over menopause, and I am trying to figure out why…..
In facing my fear of going to the barber shop as a client, there are things that have been brought to my attention. It has its advantages over a beauty salon. The barber works on one head at a time which makes the entire process faster. Although a barber shop is cash only, the bill is significantly cheaper than its female counterpart. My personal favorite is that it lacks the drama that has driven me away from all beauty salons.
No soliciting signs deter people from coming into the barber shop to harass you for your money; church play tickets, cookie donations, hand bags, perfumes. There are no children running around. Phones are not constantly ringing because people text their barber of choice. Dryers do not exist and neither do hot iron curlers. Yes, this may be a new haunt of mine.
There I was sitting at my desk. A vision came to me. My eyebrows were immaculate. My head was clean shaven. My fingers soon made an appointment with the local brow boutique. When the brows had been perfected, my car somehow took me to a place that I have always avoided, until now. The barber was pleasantly surprised to make my acquaintance.
My hands carved the tale of no more combs. The hair had to go. Down and out with the afro. I did not want to be a bald woman but close to it would be good enough for me. As the mechanism began its job, the sensation of it working on my scalp was not pleasant. The sounds of poor music and male chatter were not exactly comforting. Fist pounds served as common greetings. Tattoos were in a great abundance. There I sat in the first chair watching my mighty fro meet a dignified end.
As the mirror was pressed into my hands, I beheld the sight of my new self. Does a bald head signify courage on the part of a woman? She is relying completely on her face. Is this a statement? Am I now considered to be a bold woman? All of these thoughts went through my mind. I tipped the barber well and exited the den of men.
My dear friend was notified about the business that kept me away from her phone call. Her shock was pure. While she loved the beauty of my head, the fact that I dared to do something without taking a minute or overanalyzing every angle was simply out of my character. As the responses poured in, it was clear that my head had a fan club. I now await word from….my mother.
Trying to find the hospital in the city is like running through a maze in the dark. The directions were wrong. The traffic was moderate and there were lots of people that looked important running around in suits. When I finally arrived, valet parking was delayed so I hightailed it for the garage. The second floor was kind enough to provide my large vehicle with a space.
After I cleared security and adjusted to being in a place where people die, the elevators took me to the fifth floor where the gyn’s office was. An 11:00am appointment had been scheduled for me. After a weekend of violent mood swings and cramps before dawn, it was time for me to seek medical intervention. My abnormal behavior disturbed me.
There was an interview in a separate room prior to being seen for the main event. Am I sexually active. Why am I here. What was the date of my last period; I have an app for that. As my body settled into the second room, pictures of birth control suddenly popped before my eyes on the walls. There was a T looking contraption in a uterus. The sight of that drove me to tears. It looked simply awful. As the stinging tore at my skin, I wondered why there was such a heavy emphasis being placed on women to pop children out as their sole function in life. Before the door opened, the tears were washed from my face.
There is not a woman on earth that enjoys a vaginal exam, myself included. Between the insertion and the pressure, there is simply no relief until you are away from the office. The polite conversation fell on my sexual practices. One is supposed to feel free discussing this with a complete stranger but then you remember that it is a medical individual; you carry on. The results of my last pap were requested and there I was on my way. It took me over thirty minutes to locate my car but after crying in the office, I figured that it was right in line.
As the hospital faded into the distance, a Jamaican beef patty crossed my mind. So did my 3:30pm appointment.
It has been a very long time since I even looked at an exercise class. Zumba and Mat surfaced last Fall, but they simply did not hold my attention for long. The spark did not take for me at all. My stubborn streak returned me to a place of doing absolutely nothing with my body. A short walk with the dog was all I would consider for physical activity. When the overwhelming stress of work started causing health issues, the writing was on the wall. I was going to have to do something in spite of the fact that it was not the glamourous dancing that I once enjoyed.
My fingers found the account login information for my old haunts as I enrolled in a Sultry Vixen class. It would consist of a light dance routine that would not immediately put my person in a body bag. It was not easy to find something to wear, and the heels were misplaced. As I trotted to class, I thought about how surprised the instructor would be to see me. She hugged me twice.
In true Lady fashion, the routine was a simple skeleton for me to color. Once I saw my long legs in the full length mirror prancing around in heels, a great deal of satisfaction filled me. The slow music helped me sway and become the soft sensual character that takes over in such an atmosphere. The lighting was just right and so was the temperature. When it was my turn to freestyle, I saw the me that I knew so long ago. The stage was there with spotlights awaiting me. My smile broadened and there went the music. It was easy for me to paint the picture of the amorous lyrics. Applause filled the room as the music faded away. Another smile crossed my face. It was nice to see myself again.
When did we as women get together and decide that it was okay for blood to pour through our vaginas every month?
I think that it is time that you understand how I feel about you. I have tried to keep the peace by purchasing different types of products to accommodate your various moods. You care nothing about my precious underwear or my life. You bleed for unreasonable lengths of time and cause bottles of Alleve to simply appear. Friends have begun delivering hot fudge sundaes to appease my ridiculous cravings.
There have been medical interventions since the day you arrived; the ultrasounds! I have tried to embrace you by wearing red bracelets to honor your presence. The fact of the matter is that I hate it when you are here and love it when you are gone. You interrupt my life as I know it. Sex is put on hold. Let me repeat that to you. Sex is put on hold. Suddenly, I am in pain and experience strong emotional upheavals. Lest we forget the trauma that you caused earlier this year. I was screaming first thing in the morning and crying prior to noon. My body spent the remainder of the day putting a hot air balloon to shame as I lay helpless on the bathroom floor.
I wore all black to work today. It was the perfect color. At approximately 10:45am, you decided to allow entire gallons of blood to gush forth like a flash flood. All of a sudden, my body felt flushed with heat. I thought that I was going to break into a sweat. As I reached for my chair, I quickly sat down so that the crimson waves could hopefully subside without anyone hearing sounds.
I do not want children yet there are stretch marks on my body. I am proud to be a woman and plan to reincarnate as this gender forever. Why on God’s green earth do I have to experience this “gift” every single month of my natural life is beyond my understanding. Why do women cry when they no longer get their period? I personally plan to have a party and invite all of my friends.
Perhaps in the future, you could be more understanding of the havoc that you cause. I will also be sending you a list of the type of underwear that I like from Victoria’s Secret. You owe me.
In order to maintain a beautiful appearance, a woman has to work hard. It costs money and constant attention. Once you start to get into the habit of looking in the mirror, other things start to reveal themselves and the fine tuning begins.
Let us begin with hair…..on the head. My hair happens to be natural. It has never been my friend. It requires combing. Brushing. Dye. Trims. Conditioning. Hot oil treatments. Special shampoo. Specified pillow case and scarf. It is not an easy job to maintain an afro of this proportion. Our next visit is body hair. Everywhere.
Eyebrows shape the face and can make a girl look like she has some spice. However, after about two weeks, they have to be shaped again lest one begins to resemble a creature from outer space. Facial hair is another pesky issue. It is not the most attractive thing on a woman’s face yet the damn thing grows. Tweezers and wax are the only things that I can say about such a nuisance. The armpits are a requirement if one plans to wear a tank top or go swimming. Did I hear someone mention the bikini line? The trimming of the bush is a personal matter. Some woman like to allow it to grow wild while others tame it with a weed whacker. My personal opinion is that if I am already spending all of this time on hair, I may as well have the complete neat look. Legs are easy thanks to pink gel and a pink razor.
Dare I bring up clothing? No. I shall back up to fitness and nutrition. One has to exercise and properly hydrate in order to look nice in clothes. Those pesky pounds can actually vanish if one decides to do a couple laps around the block a few times a week without visiting McDonalds. Once this is accomplished, different styles and colors can be found that a girl enjoys modeling for herself and the world.
Nails. When did women fall in love with painted nails? There are so many wonderful colors and just an abundance of styles: gel, acrylic, French, American, SPA! These days I favor glitter and some type of deep red or bizarre purple. It was recently shared with me that once should have a standing nail appointment. Well after dealing with the hair, a girl may not have the time to get to the nail salon. You may have to walk in the morning and work the rest of the day. The proper solution for this is: use your lunch hour.
Is it any wonder that there are so many different goddesses that are called upon for beauty support? A girl needs prayer to handle all of this. Where is my mirror…..
While my toenails were being painted in a dark purple, the television lit up with new terms: inner boob, outer boob, and side boob. Being a woman that is obsessed with her own outstanding set, these terms were instantly texted to my friends; my cell lit up like a cigarette. The origin of the terms came from the need to no longer refer to the bosom as one piece because it deserves more specific descriptions for its different parts. I found this to be rather outstanding. I shall now consider all parts of my boobs when considering that outfit. This is what I learned while spending time in the nail salon.
The vagina is something that never ceases to amaze me. She has so much going on and yet is so very quiet. She is often the topic of various conversations due to her mere existence. Why, there are even poems about her. As I age, she unfolds yet another mystery about herself that I did not know before. There are various substances that she produces with blood being probably the most popular. There are many lessons that she teaches without pregnancy even being on the table. However, I was on the table yesterday. My vagina taught an entire class. We took notes.
It was high time for me to go in for a physical. While I do believe in scheduling appointments to see all of my specialists, the one thing that I do not do is a physical. Yes, my beloved PCP has spoken to me sternly about this practice of mine which I would not enforce on anyone else. I just get to the point where I do not want to see anyone else. When I go in to have my teeth cleaned, there is the oral hygienist and the dentist. Both of them want to be in the middle of my mouth with shiny sharp instruments that do not please me. The dental hygienist likes to sing while that damn brush thing is squeaking so that I have to plug my ears. I like the dermatologist. Her face is absolutely beautiful with such vibrant skin. Her office is the place to be with such beautiful décor and the ladies at the front desk look like fashionistas. I am in and out of her office within ten minutes. The most painful thing being parking. Naturally, these professionals have painted a nice picture for the one that women around the world love and hate: the ob/gyn.
Yesterday was the first part of my physical. An intern saw me which has happened before and is always pleasant. Before I saw her, the womens’ health practicioner spoke to me about my head wrap. As we spoke, my mind reflected on the first time that she saw me. I felt as if she had treated me like her own child; an instant adoption. She told me all about her background prior to going into a breast exam. Then there was the wonderful speculum. I requested that she use the small one. She blinked and politely informed me that she would use the small one; however, if she could not see what she needed to see that she would have to upgrade to a larger one and that we wanted to avoid going in twice. Loud laughter soon filled the room as there was no way to contain myself.
The intern happily came to attend to me. She updated my medical history to include the sciatica and c4 tales of woe. She asked if I wanted to have a pap. My mind thought about how much easier it would be to have it done right now instead of going all the way to the hospital to have my main ob/gyn take care of it and then fork over the hefty copay thanks to my lovely new insurance company. A bright yes was soon heard, and I wrapped myself in my nice scarf in anticipation. What happened next can only be described as a side comedy show. My vagina was about to be the subject of study for the intern.
When the practicioner arrived, we laughed and began talking about my head wrap. The intern had to begin with a breast exam which of course prompted many a comment from me including laughter. She was stopped by her teacher, and my thigh suddenly had tapping of sorts. The intern was then instructed to continue with the exam and my laughter subsided; the tickling had stopped. I looked at the teacher in awe. She had applied her expertise to the current situation and showed the intern how to prevent such stimulation. They soon moved on to the main topic of the day.
The stirrups were brought out. They were naked. I inquired about the footies because I felt as if they should have had purple footies to make the process easier. The teacher began wiping them down and said that she thought that they were better without footies because of constant germs clogging the cloth. However, she went on to say that next time they would have footies just for me with cartoon faces. This took care of my footie desire. It was quite interesting to hear the two of them speak in medical terms about my vagina which was now with company and being used as a diagram. There is a distinct difference between a gyn exam and an ob/gyn exam. This was very interesting to me because ob/gyn is said as one word when in fact they are two.
My former thoughts resurfaced: my god, doctors do not consider any hole sacred. They will go into your nose, ear, throat, back door…all in the name of your health. The small speculum was used which immediately prompted a question that was met with the answer of Virgin Mary. It remained there longer than I would have liked but felt the sympathies of the two women. I was soon thanked for being a willing party for the lesson, and felt quite happy to have been the test subject. My vagina is now a teacher!
My mother would probably pass out if she knew that I wrote this because it is of a rather personal nature. While this is true, every woman has to go through this process, and I do not see the harm in discussing it. I once exclaimed to one of her friends that they never talk about what goes on in the pregnancy room and that the younger generation (ME), needs to know. Why do I have to wait if you already know?! Tell me! She dropped details like a stripper on a pole. Men would do well to understand the process as well so that they understand why their significant others may not want to have sex for a while. So here, I have done it. It is yet another chapter in the life of a woman. This one just happens to be a bit more colorful than most. Cheers.