I am a martyr to my hormones, an absolute martyr.
Sometimes I think that my entire body is 80% hormone, 10% meat, 5%skin and 5% unruly hair in places I don’t really want it.
I remember listening to an ex alcoholic once talking about the madness of drinking. He described it as the madman driving the bus that was himself. I feel like that on very hormonal days. The madwoman is not in the attic. She is driving the Katy bus, and she is absolutely shit at parallel parking, stopping, and indeed driving. She also shouts at the passengers a lot, until they cry.
As you know, I dream of the menopause, honestly and promisedly I do. I realise I will be older, more shrivelled, more hirsute and closer to death, but frankly, on days like these it seems like an acceptable trade off, all things considered.
Then Gwyneth went and rained on my parade. Big time.
Regular readers will know that I have had my moments with Gwyneth in the past. This, on steaming vaginas, is one of my finest, but she never fails to irritate and obsess me in equal measures, no matter what she’s banging on about. I have no beef with the woman’s acting. I like her as an actor. I just find her whole ‘the world according to Gwyneth’ malarkey aggravating, but at the same time, I cannot help rubber necking. I cannot look away from her. Sometimes I wonder if Gwyneth is actually driving my bus, and that frightens the living bejeezus out of me.
This month, in her online newsletter/website she is talking about home made lube and vaginal dryness in women. Now, I am all for talking about vaginas. It is a topic I do not shy away from. Never let it be said that I shy away from vaginas. I bang on about them all the time, as my poor friends and relatives who now all have their eyebrows permanently nesting in their hairline can tell you.
My vagina is, as it were, an open book.
I especially do not shy away from dry vaginas, just as I embrace moist ones. They are all the same to me. I am an equal opportunities vaginist. I totally accept the fact that part of the menopause will mean that my lady parts will almost certainly make me think too much of the word ‘husk’, and I may wish to do something to stop myself crossing my legs and self combusting when that day comes.
It is a topic that needs airing, just like vaginas themselves.
So it is not that I have a problem with the topic that Gwyneth chose. It’s that I have a problem with the language she uses. It is just so, well, troubling. The article itself is not too horrendous, although I would no more think of using my Kenwood mixer to whip up a yam and coconut lady garden surprise than I would fly through the air. I’ve only just mastered the bread maker, and the less said about my efforts with the steamer (not vaginal, just domestic interiors, although now I come to think of it…ABSOLUTELY NOT A HOPE IN HELL OF GETTING THAT NEAR MY FOOF) the better.
It’s the email that landed in my inbox that caused mild hysteria.
She says, and I quote, that she watched a film in which a character makes her own personal lube that ‘will turn the driest of deserts into your own personal slip ‘n slide.’
Why? Why say that?
Yes, vaginas are brilliant and we are all agreed they should get out more and be allowed to roam wild and free, and not be trussed up by the diktats of lady part hating misogynists and that odd man who doesn’t allow people to post pictures of nipples on Facebook, but referring to them as a child’s water slide toy? NO. I think not.
I do not want images of screaming toddlers in nylon swimsuits shooting out of my foof thank you. It was bad enough when they came out the first time. It’s an image that is too akin to the agonies of childbirth. And if it isn’t, it’s far too near the knuckle and starts going a bit Operation Yew Tree.
Things then go from bad to worse when she says that she spent a long time looking for a real version of this fictional lube and: ‘to the joy of parched vaginas everywhere, we did’.
Parched vaginas? Parched vaginas?
Nobody needs to think of a parched vagina. Even if they have one, they don’t want to think of it like that. It just makes me think of that bit in George’s Marvellous Medicine where he describes granny as having a: ‘puckered-up mouth like a dog’s bottom’.
I can only Thank God she didn’t go on to elaborate using the word ‘wicking’.