My string bikini went into retirement a long time ago but even in my skirted mom swimwear, I still have a bit of a complex at the beach. Young and lean, or in the middle and plump, my feminine bulge has remained rather robust.
Until recently, I didn’t know there was a name for this wretched patch of human anatomy. Mons pubis. How could I have gone through life this long without knowing that? My hilarious friend Ronit Feinglass Plank enlightened me. I thought she was speaking Yiddish, but it turns out I just wasn’t paying attention in Biology 101.
I really can’t complain. My fat mons never gave me any trouble. Not once did a man refuse entry into my vagina because of it. I birthed a healthy baby. Overall, my mons has served me well.
But now that I have mons on my mind, I can’t seem to shake it, even though it’s a ridiculous thing for a perimenopausal woman to worry about. There are other bodily monstrosities that I could obsess over, like sagging boobs, chin hair, or drooping eyelids.
I fear it’s too late, I’m officially having a midlife mons crisis.
Some people dream of a custom-designed tattoo. I considered monsplasty. The options are endless. Liposculpturing of the fatty mons pubis and labia majora, mons pubis reduction, mons pubis lift, mons rejuvenation. If I hadn’t hung up the uterus (and the bikini) I might consider these. But really, what’s the point? Besides, I’m too much of a chicken to go under the knife. I’ll just have to live with a chubby mons.
I guess I could put my mons on a diet. I’m not very good at calorie restriction; if I can’t get rid of a muffin top, how would I be able to slim down my mons? I’ve been researching and I haven’t come across any breakthrough fad on the interwebs. Somebody should really look into that!
“How To Get A Bikini Beach Mons In 30 Days.”
Seriously, though, why is there so much pressure for everything to be flawless, right down to our labia? These procedures are seemingly dangerous and costly. I would rather spend the money on a set of veneers or a booze cruise to Hawaii.
In the meantime, I feel like I just learned a new curse word. It’s so much fun to say:
Shut your mons-hole!
Look at that bitch, she’s such a monstastrophe.
My camel toe is more like a tiger paw; I’m going out to buy a new pair of mons jeans.
Mons your own fucking business.
A vagina is sacred, it should be worshiped in a monsoleum.
Did you hear about Joan’s husband? Holy monsgate.
I’m getting drunk with my mons friends tonight.
I say, be one with your mons, buy a swim dress and to hell with it. Who needs a perfect pussy anyway?
Jennifer Scharf is a humor writer with essays published in McSweeney’s, Scary Mommy, Mamalode, The Mid and more. Follow her on Twitter @momcoms and Facebook





  1. Nooooo. The one part of my body I was’t self conscious about???? Now I am going to be mons gazing at the pool which will make me more awkward than I already am!!!
    Holy monsgate!

  2. Victoria Ash Reply

    It’s amazing how you consistently you make me laugh out loud when I read anything you write! You are the shit

  3. Plus, those of us rocking these monumentally magnificent crotch cushions can call each other mons soeurs as a play on the French for “my sisters” (BTW, did you know vulva, particularly the labia majora, can get bigger in women who bike frequently?!? Clearly my body feels the need to protect my more delicate lady bits from my sofa and my ergonomic office chair.)

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