I yanked the keys out of my pocket and pulled the stroller up the front steps. I took a moment to pause and take a deep breath. Don’t pee your pants, don’t pee your pants. I tried to picture something unrelated to my bladder.
Mountains, my father’s face, smoked salmon, a trickling brook – oh fuck – hard wood floors, woven baskets, red stiletto heels.
Not working. I rammed the keys in the lock and tried to maneuver the latch while holding the stroller, a diaper bag and groceries. A shiver ran over my body as I clenched everything below the belly button.
A dripping tap, waterfalls, cold lemonade. Damn it, why did I order that second coffee? Why won’t this cunty door open?
Then in my moment of frenzy God spoke to me – “It’s okay, just release yourself from this burden”. I looked up at the clouds, still gripping my keys, and gave myself permission to piss on my front steps. My welcome matt darkened and wiz wicked off the wicker fibers. As my thighs warmed with urine, I kept a brave face and was able to calmly step into my home.
I booked an appointment with a pelvic floor specialist.
The following week I walked into the physio clinic with Otis sleeping soundly in the buggy. I took my seat in the waiting room. I was the only woman there, and with a baby in my company I assumed it was obvious that I was there for a busted cooter. These men are all trying to picture how destroyed my privates are. I made eye contact with another patient, a gorgeous athlete of a man with a tensor wrap on his elbow. He looked like his name could be Travis. I said quickly, “I sprained my ankle playing tennis”. Why did I just lie to a perfect stranger? Why didn’t I come up with a better lie? I have never played a match of tennis in my life. Hopefully he’s not the Michael Jordan of tennis (see? I don’t even know any famous tennis players). He nodded politely, clearly weirded out by my vomit of an unnecessary explanation.
Just as I was about to cover my lie further, my name was called. I looked up to see a stunning super model of a woman, dressed in a navy pencil skirt and a sheer, white long sleeved blouse. There must be some kind of mistake. This can’t be my Dr. As I shook her hand I tried to recall when I last showered, and nervously tried to wipe a mustard stain from the quarter pounder I had demolished for lunch. As we strolled into the examination room I remembered that massive ingrown hair on my crotch, a result of the DIY shave I did 2 weeks ago.
“Nice to meet you Erica. I’m Dr. Beautiful [censored for privacy]. Today is going to be relatively straightforward and easy…”
Erica: “Do you have kids? How old are you?”
Clearly surprised by my interruption she replied that she was 29 and did not have any children. Fucking marvelous. Doogie Howser meets Claudia Schiffer.
She explained that the examination would be similar to a pap, I just needed to get undressed and she would be back shortly. Alone in the room I stripped down and looked at her workstation for anything that could spruce up my undercarriage. I patted some foaming hand sanitizer against my puss and said to Otis, now waking, “It’s okay Otis, Mommy is just going to clean up a bit and then we can get this show on the road”. He raised an eyebrow and frowned. Judgmental Junior.
Dr. Beautiful waltzed in quietly and took her seat at the end of the table. With my knees still together I sat up a bit and checked her out once more. This stunning creature was about to venture into the depths of my gash ghetto. Her glossy blonde locks traced over her white blouse as she leaned towards me with gloved hands. I wanted to warn her, I wanted to make up a lie, I wanted her to be ugly, I wanted her to be older, I wanted her to have children, grandchildren, I wanted her to smell bad, I wanted her to pee her pants.
“If I could just have you let your knees fall to the side,”
Okay. You asked for it lady. All I could picture was her perfect white blouse as I spread the eagle. As my knees graced the table paper Otis whined and before I knew it Dr Beautiful’s hand was pressing into me.
“I want you to push against my fingers 10 times fast. Okay, now 10 times slow, holding the muscle.”
I obliged as I focused on the ceiling tiles and wondered about Travis’s elbow.
“All done Erica. You can sit up. Your pelvic floor muscles are in perfect shape. You have an extremely powerful Vagina. I’m not really sure about why you had bladder control concerns; maybe it was just simply an accident? Accidents sometimes happen. Maybe less coffee?”
I sat up and covered myself with the tea towel they call a blanket and considered her words – “sorry, did you just use the word powerful?”
Dr. Beautiful responded, “Yes, extremely powerful. You have fantastic muscle control. Frankly, I’m impressed.”
She left, I got dressed, and I again used the foam sanitizer, this time on my hands only. As I left the waiting room, passing Travis’s empty seat, I thought to myself “I have the Serena Williams of Vaginas.”
Erica Moore is an Interior Designer with a degree in Fine Arts and Literature. She is a wife, and mother to 2 dogs and 1 baby. She is also a very hilarious human being.
Check out her blog and keep up with her on Instagram.
Featured Image via @misfitstudio / Original source unknown