In Which the Diva Cup Drives Me to Want a Red Tent

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Dear Choch,

I'm just not that into you.

We've been together for these 34 years, 11 months, 2 weeks and 12 days, even though I didn't know about you for the first 15 years. I thought you had something to do with the little hole just north of you until one day when I was trying to convince my mother to let me use this AMAZING BRAND NEW INVENTION called a tampon, and I pitched it to her as, "If you can get a baby out of that tiny little opening, I'd think getting a little tube of cotton up there would be a no brainer."

Her falling over and dying of laughter-induced asphyxiation was my first clue that I was missing something key. And yes, I went through two whole menstrual years before I knew you existed. Cult. Schizophrenic. You try to fair better in life.

Anyway, I figured out what the hell you were four years later soon enough, and sure, you've done great things for me. You allowed me to wring out three humans so they could breath well enough to eat all my good cookies someday, and you've single-handedly kept this guy around for the better part of 14 years. It's not like he's still here because of my mad housekeeping skillz or anything.

All I'm saying is that I get it. You're important. So is astro-physics but you don't see me sticking my hands in that gooepy hot mess, either, do you? I'm happy letting you be you, and letting me be me, and calling it a day. You're a glorified tube sock, a protein depository, and to be perfectly honest...you kind of wigg me the fuck out.

I have never been the 'I have vagina; hear me roar!' kind of women. I never felt the need to sit on a mirror to explore the source of my power and femininity. I made my father videotape the births of my children from the neighboring hospital. I got pregnant with my first kid because I couldn't find my diaphragm and figured I was digesting it. I don't care how you work...I just care that you do. The source of MY power and femininity? DSW. It's not oozey. I don't have to wax it. The worst thing anyone leaves behind in DSW is congealing white chocolate mochas. Which are still pretty fucking delicious.

But still, I decided to let you try one of those Diva Cup things. Because I am an idiot.

Our midwife had warned us that things like this would be a problem when she tried to reach my cervix and realized that holy shit you're long and had to take a running start to get her fingers all the way to the top of you. Good times, good times. I don't have the luxury of taking running starts to get weapons of mass absorption in their proper place. All I have are 10 stubby fingers that would rather dig around the insides of a rotting wildebeest carcass than try to get a plastic Barbie funnel in it's proper place. And yet, I tried. For you.

It's not degrading enough that I can put a 4.3 cm plastic shotglass in you and not feel it, oh no. You had to go and an attention whore about the whole thing. You had to keep pushing that thing back out. You had to shift it sideways. You had to make me spend every 47.28 minutes with my entire hand up in you (which seriously, I could have gone my whole life not knowing I can get a whole hand in you, thanks for that gem of an ego boost) adjusting and re-adjusting that thing while I was on vacation with my entire family AND 10 other bloggers. AT A WATERPARK. Are you trying to tell me something? Not getting enough attention? Take it up with your co-owner; that's in his job-description, not mine.

And don't for a second tell me I was doing it wrong. Want I should make a list of all the random crap I've had to stick in you over the past 22 years? I didn't think so. I'm the World's Leading Authority in the field of wedging plastic contraptions in you to keep stuff in, or out. And I'm done. I'm over you. I'm buying a Red Tent and we are spending 7-9 days of every month in it, end of story.

You have failed me for the last time.

You're lovin',

Mr Lady

{This slice of TMI is cross-posted to my personal blog, Whiskey In My Sippy Cup {dot] com}

 

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