I have been pale my whole life, and, despite numerous attempts to combat this disease, I’m still not used to the tone used when people exclaim, “You’re so PALE!” It’s the same one I suspect people use when they find out a sex offender is living in their neighborhood–one of disgust and outrage that ultimately leads to a torch filled witch hunt.
I cringe to think of all the times I tried to voluntarily turn myself into a George Hamilton lookalike, using everything including cheap self tanners, baby oil on a nude beach and tanning beds affixed with industrial strength exhaust fans.
Eventually, I stopped trying once I realized that I didn’t want to look like a cured ham at age 35. For years following my vow to stop trying to trick people into thinking that I was hot because I looked like a photo negative, I still failed to use sunscreen. This is partially because I was lazy and didn’t want to smell like coconut-scented chicken grease, but also because I thought that any sun I unintentionally picked up from being outside was like the free spot on a Bingo card and therefore failed to cause any sort of harm.
I recently wised up and bought Neutrogena’s Ultra Sheer Dry-Touch Sunblock (SPF 85) and have been using it as my primary moisturizer. I was skeptical about its claim that it won’t clog pores, along with it’s advertised “lightweight clean feel.” However, after one week of using it, I can vouch for both. The scent is nothing special, but not cloying either. In case you’re as sloppy as I am and get it too close to your eyes, and…wait for it because this is revelatory…it will burn. I had to learn the hard way, twice.
In this installment of “reasons why I should emancipate myself from my vagina”, I just found out I have a yeast infection. My pap results came back, and it was a good news, bad news situation. Good news–I don’t have cancer. Bad news–I have a fucking yeast infection. I was instructed to cure it with an over the counter 3-day treatment, but I resisted since I didn’t think I had any symptoms relating to a yeast infection, and as was implied by my doctor based on the scant amount of yeast found, I figured it would go away on its own. Of course that wasn’t the case, and I’m clearly missing a few chromosomes for thinking that my doctor was just chewing the fat when she was on the phone with me, you know–trying to fill the awkward silence with a real conversation starter like, “you have a yeast infection.”
I resisted treating myself because I was convinced that my UTI was, as usual, still loitering. I stand by what I said a few months ago about legitimately having a UTI, because my urinalysis came back with a +3 reading of blood, which is apparently as high as it gets aside from “dead.” I was given a week long course of antibiotics, and even though I still experienced a very slight burning sensation when I peed, I shrugged and thought, “Can’t win them all.” I think what happened (and I DID pass Biology with a C so try to stay with me), is that my UTI and subsequent antibiotic treatment seamlessly transitioned into a yeast infection, which just convinced me that I still had a residual UTI. Since I’ve dealt with UTI symptoms for all of my adult life, I got used to it and started popping Macrobid , which considering that I actually had a yeast infection the whole time, was kind of like treating a heart attack with pizza.
It’s my first one (that I know of), and I’m surprised because I always thought having a yeast infection was kind of like having crabs but less taboo. Sure, everyone experiences the symptoms differently, but the Monistat commercials would have you believe that having a yeast infection is the modern way to have a child out of wedlock. This usually means that you’re required to wear cashmere lounge-wear, stare out of the rain soaked window pane of your beach house as you cozy up to a Danielle Steele novel and ride it out with a scarlet “Y” firmly affixed to the front of your Burberry Nova Check robe. Fortunately, I haven’t experienced any clumpy discharge (goodbye forever, appetite), and surprisingly, I haven’t even been afflicted with the meth-addict level itching. I admit to using the vulvar cream that came with my 3-day pack, because there was some itching, but (in keeping with the general theme here of “I’m a dumb ass”), I attributed it to the fact that a week of Spinning had my vagina making babies with a bike seat.
Anyway, I cheaped out and bought the generic drug store brand pack, because when I saw that Monistat was $25 I was like, “What the fuck, I’m not dying.” I really didn’t know what to expect, and when I got home to study the directions for 2 hours, I had flashbacks to the first time I put a tampon in or used a pregnancy test. It was just another one of those things that falls into the sickeningly labeled feminine care category where the commercials are put through a Disney filter and are therefore, so sterile that they could be selling car insurance or Mentos. I know there’s a fine line between selling feminine care products and…porn, but showing the box from 13 different angles and repeating words like “Fresh”, “Carefree” and “Gentle” is doing it wrong. Do you know how I know this? Because when I found out that the ovule had to be pushed into the vagina as far as it will go with a plunger that resembled E.T.’s finger, I felt supremely cheated, wondering why I had to lie on my back with my knees up near my ears to prevent leakage while it seemed that all of the other women who used this got to giggle and take their Yorkie to the dog park while they engineered a way to exercise their new found vaginal freedom by chatting up the cute guy with the Great Dane because of course he has to have a Great Dane since the size difference between the Yorkie and the Great Dane is charming and makes you really root for these two.
It’s the last time I buy generic, that’s for sure.
Maybe you don’t know this, but I’m kind of a mountain man in the making. You know, one of those guys who hasn’t shaved since Jimmy Carter sent him a secret briefing in the form of an L.L. Bean Catalog that exposed Gillette for putting radio transmitters in their razors because they’re in cahoots with the government and it’s all so they can read your thoughts and find out if you really think FDR was a hero or just some cripple who got lucky? Yeah, that kind. I don’t make my own bacon…yet, but I do strive to only eat food that I’ve either made myself, or has fewer than 5 listed ingredients listed on the package. Yes, this is coming from the Queen of Biscuit Sandwiches, but I got sick of staring back at a fun house version of myself so that’s in the past.
The first thing I had to tackle in getting my health back on track was my intake of sugar. I had an unhealthy relationship with cookies, cakes, chocolate, and candy, which is why I found it hard to stay in shape because I always craved some sort of dessert after every meal. I tried to find substitutions, things like apple slices, raisins, bananas, and even raw honey, but none of it ever fully satiated me long enough to keep me from my bag of chocolate chips. Eventually, I introduced fresh squeezed juice into my diet and found it to be instantly effective in eliminating sugar cravings and on top of that, I felt I had an immense amount of energy. The only problem was that non-pasteurized fresh squeezed juice was expensive. At around $6 for 20 ounces, I wasn’t able to have it very often and so I would inevitably revert back to deep-throating cannolis.
It’s only natural then, that I’ve joined the crystal clutching new age group of juicing. People who own juicers strike me as the kind that, if given the chance, would attempt to treat an aneurysm with a chilled cocktail of tomato, red bell pepper, beet, and carrot juice, and I know this because I am one. I recently received the Breville Juice Fountain Plus as a gift and after spending $30 on an orchard of fruit, I havent stopped using it. So far, I’ve juiced oranges, apples, mangoes, pears, strawberries, carrots, and lemons and it handles it all exceptionally well, without having to peel or cut anything (aside from the oranges). It’s easy to clean, easy to assemble and I love it.
This is also good for someone like me, who is 4 and refuses to eat anything green. I absolutely hate vegetables, so being able to juice beets, spinach and celery (or what I refer to as Cerberus) and hide it in palatable things like apple, carrot, and tomato is absolutely priceless to me, because I can no longer get away with eating tater tots and checking off my vegetable servings for the week.
I started birth control because my really abrasive Eastern European doctor, knowing I was sexually active, asked me what form of birth control I used at the time, and when I said, “condoms”, she replied with, “…and you think that’s wise?” Without giving me time for a rebuttal (which probably would’ve been something like, “your mom”), she had already written me a prescription for Alesse. I was on that for about one year and I remember none of it. I know I had a lot of sex and was thrilled that I didn’t have to mess with latex condoms anymore, but adverse side effects are hard to pin down because any irritability could’ve been attributed to the fact that I was living in Washington D.C. and hated the fact that the nearest Target was at least 30 minutes away in a car I didn’t have.
After my prescription for Alesse ran out, I wanted to try something different. Luckily, I had a new doctor who didn’t have a portrait of Mikhail Gorbachev staring back at me as I spread my lips for someone who, if given the chance, would’ve probably used a scythe instead of a speculum, so I was able to explore my options. My impulse was to try a new method with one of those trendy commercials of professional women dancing to contemporary music with their friends, staying out late and drinking appletinis because they can. However, that same impulse sometimes urges me to buy The Lizzie McGuire Movie on DVD and watch until the Cheetos run out, so I squashed it immediately and just stuck with a prescription for Yasmin. I was initially impressed with the purple velour packaging, and its defense against PMDD, but the honeymoon soon wore off once I realized that I hate velour and PMDD is complete and utter bullshit. I was on Yasmin for about 6 months, and stopped the day I vowed to never beg my then boyfriend to fuck me again.
I refilled what was left of my prescription nearly one year later, once I started a new relationship. At first, we were both thrilled at the idea of being able to fuck anywhere with little to no preparation. However, as tension grew between us, it became apparent that the birth control was altering my mood and causing us to have more conflict than what would be normal for two people, one of which was still living with an ex, the other who was out of the dating game for years and therefore having a hard time figuring out how to make room for someone else in their life. If this sounds off to you, you’re onto something because it’s more laughable than David Hasselhoff’s music career. Our problems eclipsed the Hindenburg in explosiveness, because I needed constant support and reassurance while he was used to a solitary life of Corn Flakes and The West Wing.
We both bickered back and forth about the fate of my uterus, he cited some of its negative side effects and I resisted, knowing that it was of no consequence for me to go off birth control, but a good feminist didn’t listen to any man (this, I’ve learned, is more popularly known as shortsightedness). While I didn’t believe that birth control was entirely to blame, it was the only bargaining chip I had and the only way I could conceivably excuse myself for being a major cunt, so I quit taking my pills. I didn’t feel optimistic about anything at that point, knowing that it was very possible that we just weren’t compatible and were going through a trial of heartbreaking hopelessness, resting our expectations on the elimination of a dose of hormones.
Of course now I realize that our respective emotional IQs didn’t even add up to cover bus fare, but at the time, we needed something to control and choosing whether or not to take a pill was the easiest option. We were simply avoiding the inevitability of actually having to talk to one another and in the process, putting our concerns and insecurities out on the table. One of the hardest things I’ve had to do is share with someone who could identify my pubic hair in a lineup that I was irrationally afraid of being cheated on or worried that our relationship would morph into a sexless and tepid platonic bond. For me though, I knew I had to do it to explain my derisive outbursts, because ultimately it would’ve been even more difficult to watch a relationship that I truly cared about unravel due to my own inability to be an adult and claim my own, sometimes grotesque, humanity.
I’ve recently gone back on birth control, this time with Ortho Tri-Cyclin Lo, which is a low dose pill that should produce fewer side effects. It’s understandably a sensitive subject in my relationship, but it was openly discussed and for the first time in my reproductive history, I’ve been able to make a command decision to do what’s best for me and my individual circumstances. I don’t necessarily relish the thought of putting synthetic hormones into my body, but I feel it’s the right choice to make as someone who will soon be voluntarily and indefinitely unemployed. I know that being pregnant and broke in movies means that you can have a baby in Wal-Mart and somehow meet the love of your life, or at the very least Seth Rogen will show up to smoke pot and rent a shitty apartment for you to live in, but something tells me I won’t be so lucky.
I had to get Plan B today, which is why this post is really late. I’m sorry, but I had to choose between delaying this post or my period and something tells me that $26 and a plastic crab shaped plate don’t qualify me for motherhood, so here we are. I guess it’s a moot point though because clearly, I didn’t even have any material until my cervix got into the business of devouring condoms.
So, I’m doing what I normally do. Only, I’ve added lube this time because sometimes it’s like my vagina is a pair of Isotoners and the dick is OJ Simpson’s hand and then eventually, people are outraged because someone got away with murder based on a catchy rhyme. I’m moving along with a particular favorite of mine, where I basically squat over the dick and use the strength of my thighs to bounce up and down. It’s effective, but it’s brutal on my legs and so after about 5 minutes, I’m ready to strangle my boyfriend and hope that he finds it sexy enough to blow his load. Anyway, he finishes after I desperately recount some of my filthiest fantasies, as I try to pretend that my legs aren’t burning like one giant herpes outbreak. In my haste to confirm that I would, in fact, walk again, I failed to notice that the condom had come off inside of me. I was relieved that after essentially fisting me, my boyfriend was able to remove it, but it meant that I had to put on pants to go to the pharmacy, which is the real tragedy of this whole thing.
Before leaving, we called to confirm that Plan B was in stock and that we would not be denied for being fornicating heathens, and established that although we were going to hell, we would be able to at least elect to opt out of the procreation raffle. On the way there, I was calm and mostly worried about showing up with no makeup and wet hair, imagining that the pharmacist would refuse us convinced that no one would fuck me while looking like Michael Jackson. Regardless, we got our Plan B and it was easy and painless. Unlike the first time I had to get Plan B, when the pharmacist looked at me like I was the one to hand over the nails at the crucifixion, causing me to walk away shamed and embarrassed.
The thing is–there’s nothing to be ashamed of if you find yourself in a situation where you need Plan B. Unfortunately, it’s been skewed that way, and the fact that it’s commonly referred to as the ‘abortion pill’ doesn’t help. Used responsibly, Plan B is an effective method in preventing pregnancy in the case that routine birth control methods have failed, or if none were used at all.
The moral is: keep fucking, keep loving and always be careful if you are trying to be the Hercules of cock.
