A reader recently wrote CL to say she couldn’t believe the paper would print a column by someone whose “life revolves around her vagina.” I started to think about that statement. . .and I wondered: Does my life really revolve around my vagina? Hmmm.First of all, I thought, there’s my name. It’s pretty safe to say that nearly everyone in America with the name “Elizabeth” also has a vagina. It may be a weird coincidence, or maybe there’s an old law that says you can’t give someone with a penis the name “Elizabeth.” In any case, for now, I think we’re reserving that name for people with vaginas.
When I got up this morning, I pulled a ponytail holder out of my hair. It’s because I have a vagina that I’ve never had a crew cut, nor a Mohawk, and have worn my hair long since I was in grade school. It’s because of my vagina that I’ve never been asked by any school or employer to cut my hair, and have always been able to wear it in whatever style I choose without anyone calling me a hippie when they passed me on the street.
As I turned on the water for my morning shower, I retrieved a fresh razor out of my linen closet and began the daily task of shaving half of my body. Because of my vagina, I get gasps of horror if I wear sleeveless shirts with hair hanging out two to three inches from my underarm. It’s also expected of me to have no hair on my legs if I plan on wearing a dress — which, according to our society, requires having a vagina. Sure, there are plenty of robe-wearing people running around with penises, but that has more to do with a religious thing. I’m a Catholic, and unless you’re in the priesthood (which, because of my vagina, I can never be), you gotta have a vagina to wear a dress.
I got out of the shower and realized I needed to tinkle. Now, I know not all people with penises stand up for this task, but you can rest assured that not a single one of us with a vagina does.
I put my hair up in a towel, and proceeded with the daily task of applying make-up before reporting to work. Now granted, this is where the double standard really kicks in. Many robust penis-owning individuals wear their fair share of make-up; however, unless I want to hear comments all day at work asking “Are you sick?”, I have to follow the call of my vagina, and create in 20 minutes what nature didn’t give me in 20 years. It’s because of my vagina that I have supervisors telling me that unless I have a flawless Scandinavian complexion, or a religious reason for not doing so, wearing make-up is the professional thing to do for a well-dressed woman.
I began rummaging through my dresser drawer to look for my boxer shorts and Hanes t-shirts, but all I came up with was a pair of flimsy lace panties and a brassiere. I stared at them for a moment and remembered that, oh yeah, I don’t have boxers in my underwear drawer because I have a vagina.
The mystery continued as I reached for my white blouse and was confused by the direction of the buttons. The buttons were on the left instead of the right, and then I remembered that this, too, was because of my vagina. It’s people with a penis who have their shirts with buttons on the right. Silly me.
As I finished dressing for work, I looked desperately for a pair of leather lace-up loafers to wear with my dress suit. I discovered, much to my dismay, that because of my vagina, the only thing I had in my closet that really went with my dress was a black pair of Ralph Lauren (who has no vagina) heels.
I started out the door, then turned around and glanced back at my house, and recalled the wonderful day when I closed on it. I distinctly remember the legal words “a single woman” following my name several places on the closing documents. I realized again that it was because of my vagina that the words “a single woman” instead of “a single male”were used in the closing papers.
Then it came to me that this same reference to my having a vagina was made on my driver’s license, my employment records, my birth certificate, and an endless array of other documents that have followed me around in life.
I also recalled many of my married friends. Couples in which only one of the two had a vagina. Can you believe that? I think we call them heterosexuals. When you have a couple where both parties have vaginas, we call them lesbians. If the rules of my vagina-laden gender are correct, those of us who have one can only legally marry someone who has a penis. Unless, of course, you live in Vermont, in which case you can legally co-habitat with another person who has a vagina, but they don’t call it a marriage, they call it a civil union.
I then began to wonder why people get married at all, and I had a revelation that it was something along the lines of having a partner in life that you can love, and have children with. My next thought caused me to stagger back with amazement! I suddenly remembered taking a science class that covered some basic elements of reproduction. Get this for vagina trivia: every single member of the human race was birthed by someone who had a vagina! I know, I know — it’s difficult to believe, and the consistency with which we’ve held up this tradition for thousands of years and billions of people is astounding.
Since life apparently revolves around vagina issues, as I’m reminded hundreds of times a day, since I was 16 years old I’ve even had a special doctor whose primary purpose in life is taking care of women’s vaginas. After all, I have to keep mine in tip-top shape — according to some people, I’d have no life without it.
This article appears in Jul 31 – Aug 6, 2002.
