Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes

If we couldn't laugh, we would all go insane. 

Today is Valentine's Day. This isn't particularly significant. It is also Widow Wednesday (aka dinner & drinks with a few of my widdas), the day of my monthly massage, my friend Fernburger's birthday and my 1-year anniversary at a job that I love, and I care much more about the last four happenings of the day than the fact that it's Valentine's Day. Alas, in true widow form, I'm a bit of a grouch today. This doesn't have anything to do with Mark, considering I have ZERO memories of celebrating this supposedly romantic day with him. I even scrolled through Facebook to see if we had in fact done something in the realm of romance on this day in the past, but I found nothing. It's not in my nature to care much about gifts or spending money unnecessarily to commemorate just about anything, let alone a day so commercialized that they increase the price of chocolate.

Don't people know the REAL holiday is the day AFTER Valentine's Day when all the chocolate is on sale???

Sorry to disappoint, but this is not a sad post about how much I miss my dead husband and am longing for a new love. It is a post about me being grouchy and how I just HAPPEN to be widowed and grouchy on this of all days. But it's got nothing to do with Valentine's Day and everything to do with my vagina.

If you didn't take the word 'vagina' as warning enough, there's no helping you. Read on at your own risk, or at least for a good laugh.

At this point, I am used to the fact that I make people uncomfortable, so you may as well get used to it, too. I regularly post about suicide, mental health, my own PTSD and a dead guy that some people miss so terribly they have blocked me and/or avoided me for the nineteen months since he died. I bring up topics that are not comfortable. Suicide is a confronting subject about which most people say nothing. Mental health is so obscure that we as a society generally don't even know what to say, leaving people feeling alone. Grief, emotions and crying are often brushed under the rug, or drowned in a bottle of wine by both the afflicted and the spectators. If you're around me, you will inevitably find yourself in conversation about something you've probably never said to anybody ever before, and then you'll predictably tell me how I'm the first and only person to know said information. I'm used to it, and it's an honor to be someone around whom others can open up. I'm not afraid to talk about suicide, so why would I draw the line at my vagina?

Disclaimer: You probably shouldn't draw lines anywhere near your vagina.

I seem to be suffering from what I've told my male coworkers is a "feminine issue". This is especially entertaining given I work in a male-dominated environment at a construction company; I'm pretty sure none of them will mention a word of this week to me ever again. Today is now the third day that I have not able to make it into the office due to said feminine issue. I have the blessing of being able to work remotely, but I'm getting a bit bored. It's perfect timing, really, that I have both my monthly massage and dinner with the widdas tonight. I've been looking forward to these Valentine's Day plans for weeks, and it's even more exciting considering how unpleasant I've been feeling these last few days. I didn't have anything scheduled for my vagina, though, and today's action was unexpected.

Oh yes, a man touched my vagina today. An older man. A very skilled, highly trained man. He was smart and kind. He seemed to know a great deal about the female anatomy. No, this was definitely not his first time, and I appreciated his experience. We even let a woman watch while he went to work on me. And oh boy, did he find ALL the spots. He's a smooth talker, too; he explained every move in great detail. Now, now, don't be jealous. There are many more just like him. Women, too, if you swing that way. You're free to make an appointment with him any time you want. I hear Planned Parenthood is a good place for a date with a man of his kind.

Okay, I've taken this far enough. But really, if I can't laugh about life after all I've been through, what's the point?

I am one lucky gal. I got a date with the OB-GYN on Valentine's Day. YAY! The massage and dinner with the widdas were already in competition for the highlight of my day, but that pelvic exam is now in the running. I mean, I haven't been touched like that in a while. 

And because I know at least half the people reading this are now wondering if my poor vagina has been neglected since Mark died...

HA! I'm not addressing my sex life, at least not in this post. Even so, that would pale in comparison to the joys of a pelvic exam. Doctors like to refer to every part as "a little bit of pressure", completely neglecting the swabbing and scraping that feel, shockingly, like swabbing and scraping and not at all like pressure. Today's exam was my first time with a plastic speculum, so that at least made part of it new and interesting. I mean, who doesn't like new toys? I'm used to the metal ones, but the disposable plastic kind is complete with a raucous opening mechanism. Its clicking sound, like most noises, made me twitch, to which the doctor responded with further warnings about the "pressure" I might experience. I was not amused.

Alas, I made it through and was left feeling the way I always feel after a pelvic exam: icky. Really, they use goop (lube) to insert the speculum, and it somehow always ends up somewhere that it's not supposed to. Female doctors do a better job of handling this. Men, don't leave women covered in superfluous goop of ANY kind; it's just not cool. I was left having to deal with the goop AND frantically put my clothes back on in what felt like 6.5 seconds before the doctor came back in. Then they did the inevitable pregnancy test, over which I fretted for a good ten minutes, despite knowing that the odds of a positive result were quite low.

Ya know, because my poor widowed vagina has been neglected since Mark died...

Or because I'm on birth control, but I'm going to let you wonder about that a little bit longer...

Happy Valentine's Day... or Singles' Awareness Day (otherwise shortened to "S.A.D.")... and my favorite of all, Happy Widowed Wednesday!