Back in the 90s, I wanted to be Gwyneth Paltrow. I rocked dark brown lipstick, a Sliding Doors pixie cut and had a mean crush on Brad Pitt.
As the years rolled on, the love faded and the annoyance washed in. With every one of her macrobiotic diets, $250,000 “must haves,” and that conscious uncoupling, my eyes rolled a little further back into my head.
What sent me into a Little Orphan Annie, nothing-but-the-whites-of my-eyes roll, was Her Royal Goopness’ pronouncement that we must steam our vaginas, because there is something in that magic steam that will make your uterus squeaky clean.
I don’t know about you, but there are many things that my lady-land needs more than a steam bath. For starters:
Novocain for the Soul Baby-Maker. Once a month, my uterus twists itself into a pretzel to expel all of my baby-making tissue. Half the time I don’t know if it’s cramps or if I have to take a massive dump. Either Midol or Ex-lax will help the situation, but don’t pick the wrong one, or else you’ll be crampy and pooping your brains out, or constipated but menstrually content. I would like an “Option 3,” which would be to have my uterus numbed by novocain. This way, there are no cramps, poop flows normally, and I am a happy camper for 10 days. Everyone wins.
Sea Salt Scrub for the Vajayjay. When I pushed my son out of my majestic Never-land, I was ripped laterally. Stitches made everything whole, but I was left with a scar. It was thick, and even my husband could feel it. While it added a new dimension to our sex life, I felt a little self-conscious about it. What I needed was something to smooth the edges. Nothing makes me feel slicker than a baby seal like a sea salt scrub. Just think, I could rub that all over my lady bits, erasing my scar and making myself a human margarita, ripe for the licking. Now that’s a new sexual twist I can get behind.
No-tears Brazillian Waxes. Every once in a while, I get a pubic hair stuck in my pantyliner. That rip to extract a well-rooted hair from adhesive brings more than one tear to my eye. I think that’s why I’ve never had even a bikini wax. If I can’t handle one pube being plucked from my person, how would I cope with wax over many hairs? This is why I need a vaginal mask that would protect me from pain. That way I could eliminate pesky pubic hairs without any tears. Someone should get on this.
Thong Guard. I hate VPL (visible panty line, for those who don’t know). But, I am also loath to wear thongs. In my 20s, it was no big deal to sport a thong daily, but now that I am older and wiser, I have a love-hate relationship with them. They rub me raw from asshole to clitoris, but they make my ass look fantastic whenever I want to wear something remotely clingy. They are a necessary evil, but a layer of metal would be better than the dental floss slowly grinding back and forth between my legs. Someone get on this, too.
Body Language: You’re Not Pregnant. Now this enters the realm of fantasy, but seriously, how great would it be to get a message from your body that you are not pregnant, rather than having your body expel two tablespoons of blood every month? Any code would do; heck, just send a memo on letterhead, even. I’m not picky. I would rather take a lesson on how to read an ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics version of a pregnancy test than have my period.
So, what’s likely to be a better seller? Steamy lady bits, or a salt scrub for the undercarriage? I think even Little Lady Gwyneth would agree with me.
Forget the steam; let’s go with something women can really use.