Earlier this week, a friend who is going through some tough stuff said, “I really need to grow a bigger set of balls. Kerri, can I borrow yours for a bit?”
We don’t really have time to enumerate the many, varied, hysterically wrong things there are with that sentence. The very notion that I am somehow brave or tough is enough to make me laugh for days on end. So I just channeled my inner Betty White, “You don’t need balls, honey. You have a VAGINA!”
But it did get me thinking a bit about the alleged “magic” that whole groups of people seem to think lives in my vagina. Assuming they were right, I could beat the spells out of Harry Potter.
- My vagina has a homing device. It would seem that no matter what is lost in our home, whether I would ever even have cause to touch the missing thing, I’m supposed to know where to find it. Mom! Where are my shoes? Hey Babe, where are the keys to the lock on that deal you never knew existed? When these questions arise, it’s super easy to help out. First, I place my hands on my hips bones and lift my chin skyward, sort of Wonder Woman style. Next, I close my eyes to clear my mind. Then I follow my pelvis to the location the lost thing. No really. That’s true. Except the part about closing my eyes and being able to navigate to the location of lost things. That part I totally made up. I do try to use any excuse to pretend I’m a super hero, but that’s a whole other topic. It would be bloody fabulous if something like that worked. But…well…it’s not.
- My vagina can cause men to lose all control over their actions. I triple dog dare you to ask the Google about modesty…especially with regard to yoga pants. The theory is this: The default position for all male humans is to be rapists. Therefore, if I wear clothing, like yoga pants, in public where men could *see me,* then the only natural conclusion is that he will be forced to act out in inappropriate ways, eventually raping some poor unsuspecting woman wearing high heels. Obviously, she had it coming. Now don’t get me wrong, we don’t all want to be gynecologists. Ladies, keep your hoohaw covered. But I live with a good guy and I’m raising a son who will one day, Good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, also be a good guy. In fact, I know a lot of good guys. They are not rapists lying in wait. And it’s offensive to me and to them to say otherwise. Also it’s a really super clever way to keep women from reporting actual sexual assault. If she hadn’t been wearing those clothes, he would have kept his hands (and penis) to himself. See how nicely we’ve removed all blame from the attacker and put it back where it belongs…on the magic vagina.
- My vagina knows everything about children. It’s actually pretty astounding. When a short person is sick, injured, struggling in school or playing poorly at whatever required sporting activity he’s signed up for, I know what to do. That information was tucked in a secret place in my girl bits, so that I can take care of all small creatures. And by tucked away in my girl bits, I mean I’m Googling the hell out of signs and symptoms of cancer, brain tumors, lice or any other dire WebMD diagnosis I can find. Also, if I just spit out words like “scarlet fever,” “monkey pox,” or “projectile vomiting,” I can make people shut up and stop asking questions while I call the pediatrician for actual medical advice. My vagina knows the office number by heart.
But I still think Betty White was on to something when she pointed out the strength of the magical vagina. Women don’t need a set of balls. We need to remember who we are. We are stronger and tougher and braver than we often give ourselves credit for being. And all magic aside, some pretty amazing humans have taken their vaginas to the top of social, political, business and physical mountains. They carried them into space and the depths of the ocean. We are simply the other half of the human race. Please excuse us now, we have actual work to do. Someone seems to have lost his socks.