To share … or not to share?

I’ve recently done a course on ‘menopause and beyond’, about how to not only survive but thrive after menopause. I’m a fitness instructor and I liked the idea of offering the course to my older clients.

Until I reached the module called ‘know your vulva’…

I haven’t had children so my body has never been subject to invasive scrutiny. I’m a private person. I probably verge on prudish. The title of the module made me feel a tad squeamish … but it’s good to push oneself outside one’s comfort zone… isn’t it? So I soldiered on.

There were lots of diagrams naming female parts and a detailed description on how women should undertake a monthly examination of said parts, including using a mirror to detect changes in colour.

I wondered how I got to be so old without ever thinking about the colour of my vulva. How would I know if it had already changed colour and was preparing to explode in a technicolour wave of life threatening disease. Apparently, skin changes can indicate a multitude of conditions, including lichen sclerosis. I don’t even want to remember that.

Then I read the comments in the chat room after the module had been delivered in a webinar. A fellow student (an enthusiastic and persistent chat room visitor called Rainbow who teaches yoga and frequently posts vegan recipes) couldn’t wait to deliver it to her eagerly waiting clients. She wondered what we all thought about her asking her clients to bring mirrors to the ‘know your vulva’ session so it could be a shared experience.

At this point, my brain shrank to the back of my skull and crouched there whimpering. I was now so far out of my comfort zone that I was going to need therapy. For the rest of my life.

But once thought, such things cannot be unthought. My cringing mind kept returning to the concept of a group ‘know your vulva’ session.

I suddenly realised that many, if not most, heterosexual females are probably vulva illiterate. What chance do we have to do comparison shopping? The average bloke probably knows tons more about what colour vulvas should be … indeed what shape, size, texture… Until this awful moment, I hadn’t even wondered about my own, let alone anyone else’s.

I suppose one could do some comparison shopping on the world wide web’s prolific porn offering, but it’s hard to do serious research when laughing.

I spent my young adult years in Zimbabwe, pre-world wide web. Porn wasn’t commonly available and our prudish, patriarchal society painted it as something very naughty and very exciting. I didn’t know anyone who actually admitted to seeing a porn movie. No one except my friend Liz. She was also the first woman I’d ever met who was openly gay, a Big Deal in c.1980.

A group of work colleagues and I met with her for a drink when she came back from a trip to Europe. Knowing her sexual orientation, one of the men slyly asked if she’d seen a porn movie while in Amsterdam. She airily said she wasn’t that fussed about the sight of a working penis so she’d happily joined her heterosexual travelling companion for a couple of hours in an adult movie house.

We were agog and aghast. She had actually seen porn?

“It’s very boring,” she said. “Like watching a old silent movie about the principles of the piston engine. A steam train engine jerks out of the station, the pistons working in slow motion. The train starts going down a hill. The pistons go up and down faster and faster. Then there’s a big crash. The train engine falls off the rails. And that’s it. Over and over again. The same thing.”

The imagery grew in my mind. I recalled that Maternal Grandmama played the piano accompaniment to silent movies to earn pocket money when she was between husbands. If she had a hot date, she would play the music really quickly so the projectionist had to wind the hand wound projector equally quickly, and the film finished early.

When I finally went to Amsterdam a couple of years later and saw my first porn films, I couldn’t get Liz’s description out of my mind. She was so right. I’m afraid I got the giggles as one train after another crashed and fell off the rails.

Not quite the turn on first husband had in mind.

Anyway, back to the serious business of vulvas.

I found myself mulling over the idea of Rainbow’s shared vulva experience . Would everyone have the self-discipline to only look at their own vulva as the class did a group crouch or would some cast a sideways glance at their neighbour’s mirror?

I know that men steal glances at one another’s parts while peeing in public urinals. And they comment about anything unusual, especially those that are particularly large. If penis envy is a thing, why shouldn’t vulva envy be a thing too? But would one envy those that are particularly big, or particularly small, or particularly pink… Are some vulvas prettier than others… So many questions…

My thoughts veered to Stormy Daniels revealing salacious details of her affair with Trump, including his strangely shaped penis. Is there such a thing as a weirdly shaped vulva?

Oh my goodness! What if I have a weird vulva but neither of my husbands told me? (Both are dead now so I can’t ask – and no, their demise had nothing to do with eating mushrooms.) Now I have yet another anxiety to overcome should I one day take a lover.

As age takes its toll on my body, I’m fast developing body dismorphic disorder but I hadn’t given a thought to my vulva … until now.

Is vulva shaming a thing? This may be an anxiety too far. Am I too old to become a nun?

Excuse me for a while. I’m approaching melt down. I need to take a pill and seek shelter in sleep …

As I waited for calming sleep, I found myself wondering what direction Rainbow’s yoga classes will take in future. I mean, why bother with mirrors if you can shove your nose up your… nooooooooooooo!

Best I take another pill. Good night y’all.