No more whiskers

It’s been bothering me ever since I saw those silly Census 2010 pictures of myself. Every time I look in the mirror, I wonder is it there or is it not? That is my mustache.

I have always been self conscious about hair and facial hair in particular. My mother unluckily inherited the gene where occasionally she gets a few longer blond chin hairs. She has always been very careful to make sure they are gone at first notice. Once my sister told me she too had gotten a long chin hair. I inspect my chin frequently always ready with tweezers just in case that day of doom comes upon me.

The first time I became particularly tuned into my facial hair was in 7th grade. My friend and her mother already had a ritual of using a Nair like product on their mustache. I tried it with her the night we were to be going to a "boy/girl party". It was awful. My upper lip was red and swollen and I’m sure I had some chemical burn. That was the night I had my first kiss. It was also quite awful. Tonsil hockey…really? Someone should have warned me.

Now as I look at my mustache in the mirror my wedding day flashes before me. Will my pictures show a mustache? I wish us women could get a break on this whole hair thing because really I’m sure there is something I could be doing slightly more productive and brain creative than worrying about my facial hair...though I absolutely refuse to be running around with whiskers.

The hair must be annihilated.

Getting familiar

Every year I go for my annual gyn exam, and every year my doctor walks in and introduces herself to me as if it was our first time meeting. This year was different as I opted for a “Hope” appointment where I skipped the dreaded stirrup pelvic exam and instead talked about my medical history, got my blood pressure checked, and then renewed my prescription.

This year was even more different when after the introduction she said I looked familiar. Yet, my vagina was fully clothed. I only become familiar when I’m clothed? Is that good or bad? Perhaps, it would be slightly more uncomfortable if while my doctor was sitting between my legs she then said I looked familiar. We then would ponder what that means.

There is another much more important point to consider. How familiar are we with our own vaginas, vulvas, whatever? If women were shown pictures of genitalia would they be able to pick out their own? It is probably time to start friendly introductions to our own bodies until each part can be familiar. I say familiar because frequent reintroductions are important. After all we are always changing.

Sparkles don't belong there

WTF vajazzle?! Ok, so I have heard a lot about this whole Jennifer Love Hewitt vajazzle thing lately; well just that it is something about adorning the vajayjay (not my word I hate it) area with some sparkly shit. Seriously? Some things are not meant to be sparkly. After once again seeing some hater vajazzling comments I decided to use my friend google to search vajazzle.

The first website is...

RATE MY VAJAZZLE

Naturally I clicked on it. Could it possibly actually contain vajayjays all vajazzled? And it does! With no “you must be an adult to enter warning”! The first picture was horrifying. Why on earth would a woman put sticky sparkly fake diamond dots on her vulva? Here I was all worried about the trendiness of pubic hair when really I should have been worried about finding the right vajazzle. Maybe I should just be worried that women are still clueless about their anatomy.

Message: The vagina (vajayjay) is not the vulva.

I feel bad for tween girls and hope that this gross misogynistic fad ends quickly and never reaches their already too vulnerable minds. I am officially a vajazzle hater.

Thank you Dr. Haas

I know I have had a good workout if after I have warmed-up, lifted some weights, ran four miles, put my abs back into place and stretched, I am not flattened to the floor nor tired. Instead I feel light and airy. This is why I love my tampons.

While running I saw an advertisement for pads, feminine napkins, whatever. The woman was running and happy. Really? Is there any way that woman could be happy running with a diaper down there? Admittedly I have never tried. I have been immersed in the world of tampons from the get go. My mother was a tampon user, and my sister was the one who left me with tampons for when I started my very first period.

In my exercise high I would like to take the opportunity to thank the inventor of the modern tampon, Earle Haas.

Thank you tampon inventor for giving me the opportunity to run diaper and chaffed free. My ass, heart, and mind are especially appreciative.

Driving thought tangents

While in my driving daze (Mike left the whole chicken in his car overnight and all day until I discovered that we had no chicken in our refrigerator) I was thinking about this new health care bill and what it says to women about women, which of course went off into another thought tangent as soon as I drove by the Saint Francis Xavier Church.

Last summer I would occasionally go for a run outside and would pass by this church. Whenever I would run by the church I would take those seconds and dedicate them to my spiritual growth. I am more of a spiritual person than a religious person thus running by the church was my church. Of course thinking about running brought me to another thought tangent.

I miss being able to run outside more frequently. When I first started running in middle school I lived on a dirt road. I loved the sound of my shoes hitting the rocky dirt and the way the trees would line the road. It made my own little private world. Now that I am in a city I do not like to run outside as much. I hate the traffic and the smell of exhaust. I hate waiting to cross the road and I hate that instead of my being able to go into a magical world of nature I am forced to take note of who is around me. Am I safe?

There have been enough tragedies that have happened to women in my life to make me weary. It does not help that a simple run just for me can easily turn into the unwanted objectification of my body as some idiot men yell at me from their car windows. It feels as if I cannot have even a little space in the world, which brings me back to my original thought.

The health care bill reinforces the idea that I as a woman cannot have a full right to my body. As a young woman in this current culture it is easy for me to sometimes feel like I cannot own my body and I cannot have space without it being infringed upon. Even so, I keep journeying along because I know I really do own my body and that I will be able to be present in space.

The nightmares commence

The three month countdown to the big day is about to commence. Along with the countdown comes the nightmares. Last night my unconscious mind graced me with a lovely dream where the day had come and Mike and I had forgotten to finish writing our vows. I frantically looked for him to finish writing our vows, but of course I could not find my groom anywhere.

Who knew there was so much to worry about with weddings?! I just pictured the day magically happening. Now I am consuming as many facial products as I possibly can to try to avoid a zit or worse a breakout on my wedding day. Unfortunately, as much as I have tried to involve Mike in the wedding he just does not get stressed out about a zit like I do. Therefore, I have all these tiny things that I am worried about on top of the overall wedding picture and Mike does not. Can’t I make him worry some more?

In my worried state I must go off to check the list and check it twice…and then one more time. Brides are surely more thorough than Santa will ever be.

Minding breasts

Mostly, in the gym I like to have my music blasted so all communication is cut off except between my iPod and my head. Sometimes I’m sneaky and I turn my music down so that I can ease drop on conversations. Today while eloquently mounting the elliptical trainer I was blissfully unaware of my breasts until one frequent sweaty male member said to another, “Trust me after teaching breastfeeding for 20 plus years there is nothing I need to know about women’s breasts.” He was clearly amused about an article he just read. I looked quickly down at the magazine he was holding, Men’s Health.

Why is Men’s Health writing about my breasts? I want to know about my breasts, but men don’t want to know about my breasts. Apparently, according to “It takes two: What women really want you to know, think, and feel about their breasts”, there are four truths plus a final truth, which really makes five:

1. Women don’t think we’re total pigs about this.
2. Many women love their breasts more than you do.
3. Women can be deeply conflicted about their breasts.
4. In bed you know nothing about them.
5. Final truth:  “…there's a double standard about being endlessly presented with breasts and then being vilified for looking at them.”

I’ve decided a response was in order:

1. Yes we do. Exceptions: (a) you are hot (b) we want to have sex with you (c) we want something from you.
2. What evidence suggests that again? I’m not sure citing that 62% of women finding it more exciting to take off their tops than their bottoms really insights the conclusion that we love our breasts more than you do. Furthermore, finding that 78% of women prefer being on top because it shows of their breasts better during sex is more indicative of women’s acute knowledge that this will turn men on and that they (women) will more likely orgasm.
3. Thanks in most part to our society’s insistence that breasts defines female gender, sexuality, and identity.
4. In bed, out of bed, after reading Men's Health, you most likely just know nothing about breasts.
5. Boohoo. Welcome to the world of walking the line between being the sacred Madonna and the sultry slut.

My thoughtful conclusion: Tomorrow I’ll put on a bra that lifts the girls and possibly a sneak peak top and get pissed when you look at my breasts unless of course a,b, or c apply. Enjoy.