Yet I am a woman with a vagina, and this becomes an area of my concern when people start saying that I shouldn’t reference or acknowledge that—that it’s in fact bad and intolerant so 20th century to even speak about it. The fact that some trans women don’t have vaginas doesn’t negate the fact that the vast majority of women do. And now, in the name of feminism, “female-validating talk about vaginas is now forbidden,” as one anonymous writer on a Mount Holyoke messageboard put it. “That’s so misogynistic under the guise of ‘progress.'”
Well, in my book, it kind of is progress. For the past 20 years or so, women have been gushing over their vaginas and waving their vaginas around as though they were unique to humanity; they’ve been oh-so-daring and counter-cultural, really putting it to the man by shoving their vaginas in everyone’s faces, taking their vaginas out for spa days, carrying them around in public conversations as though they were a trendy pet (or as Eve Ensler might have said, “my vagina is an chihuahua that growls at strangers and runs to the door to greet my gender-unstipulated friends! I dress my chihuahau-vagina up like Princess Leia for Halloween! I put tiny poppin’ fresh cinnamon rolls on each side of my labia…).
Vaginas have not only become a big business, for the matriarchy the vagina and its attendant parts have served as totems for feminism, and since ladies are good at crafts, you need only slip a few words into a search engine to find vagina earrings, vagina megaphones (echo…echo…); vagina soaps; knitted vaginas that cover tissue boxes, crocheted catnip vagina toys for their…kittykats.
And then finally — finally! — a woman brought vagina-crafting to its zenith — or its nadir — and started knitting out of her vagina, over the course of a full 28 days, to insure the inclusion of every bit of her vaginal goodness.
What a glorious day that was! Once women were able to deliver something really creative out of their vaginas — like a stained 12-foot scarf, instead of some boring, unspecial thing like an infant the world doesn’t really need — the full emancipation of all vaginas had finally come. Capable of coaxing what is not life from vaginas, they have achieved godhead. Nothing more need be done.
On the 8th day, the godling spewed forth a fine Peruvian Alpaca-Merino Wool Blend scarf rendered in a basic Stockinette stitch, and all was right with the world. And after clearing out a hairball, the vagina said, “cough…cough…ew…let there be no more of this crap; it’s very dehydrating.”
After vaginal-godhood, there is really nowhere else to go, but down; the vagina is become a victim of it’s own ubiquitous success. A vagina-god means a vagina-religion, and religion is always under fire, and that’s kind of what’s happening now.
When the vaginas started talking at us, some found it cute, others daring, but before long, vaginas started kowtowing to political correctness, first announcing that even terrible actors should be vaginas, and then needing to insure that vaginas of every culture had been seen and heard from; then vaginas were taken out for tonifying radio waves and little nip-n-tucks; women have created monuments to them and toys of them, and really, any mystery that may have existed has dried up.
The once emphatically counter-cultural, anti-establishment vagina has in fact become the man, the heap-big establishment, so far out of the staid satin boudoir that it has become boringly bourgeois. Nothing demonstrates this more completely than the fact that the vaginas are now being told to shut up; that all of their yapping is insensitive to the non-vaginated members of the weeping sisterhood, who want recognition for being just as vapor-capable as any strong woman in America, and they don’t need to haul around these needy, neurotic, attention-demanding, verbally-incontinent vaginas to make sure everybody knows it.
Well, good, says I. Let’s stop obsessing over a gift women did nothing to earn and over which they therefore can claim no bragging right. Let’s release all the tired little vaginas from the thongs and g-strings and let them slouch around comfortably in real panties — the lingerie equivalent of sweat pants and white socks — and let the vaginas (and their less celebrated vulvas) give over to their weariness. They’ve been on quite a whirwind bender, these past decades, and could likely use little quiet time to themselves.
For which the rest of the world may give thanks.
An Instalanch is always appreciated; thanks, Glenn Reynolds!
From Vaginas to Vitae
Image is mine.