Tuesday, March 9, 2010

I don't buy orchids

By the last week of birthing classes I was inundated with images of vaginas. They came in a constant parade from discreet line drawings to ridiculously lurid diagrams. We saw charts and books full of them. The shape and nuance of each described with clinical relish by our enthusiastic birthing instructor. I had to escape and sought refuge in the ladies’ washroom until I closed the stall and there it was, ten times the size, staring back at me through the wood grain of the door. Massive and imposing, perhaps once belonging to Treebeard’s wife or Judy Chicago’s sun deck.

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