Awkward things women have to do
WOMEN are supposed to be the fairer of the two sexes, the more graceful, more elegant. But in a lot of ways I feel that’s simply not the case. More specifically, in these ways, below.
Men will never know the awkwardness that is peeing behind a bush. Getting low enough, making sure your knees are wide enough and your hips are angled just right so you don’t get splash back. Good luck when you’re drunk. And God help you if someone approaches. Not any real way to be discrete about that.
Few men will know the vulnerability that comes from standing naked in a small dark room in nothing but a see-through paper g-string, waiting for a stranger to come in and spray you, head to toe, in a freezing cold mist that makes your nipples stand to attention.
Or the awkwardness that is lying on towel over a massage table with a t-shirt and no pants, your legs apart and heels touching, while a stranger in sunglasses stands over you with a laser machine and a big tube of cold gel.
Flash forward to the awkwardness that is being left alone in that room with a big box of tissues and shit tonne of baby wipes to get the titanic amount of aforementioned gel off your skin and out of various crevices.
The unwanted intimacy that is someone gently spreading warm wax over your genitals, only to rip it off seconds later, apologise, and then do it all again. Many times.
The majority of men will never have to experience the awkwardness that is peeing into a small plastic cup, (and in the process, all over your own hand) and then having to hand that warm cup over to a male doctor who looks less than pleased to receive it.
Or the defensiveness that is trying to explain to the doctor that you don’t know how you got a urinary tract infection because you’ve only had sex once in the last 12 months (and that barely counted), plus you’re super hygienic and it’s really not fair.
The moment of panic when you’re at a man’s house and you’ve got your period but they don’t have a bin for you to put your blood-drenched sanitary products in, and like a twisted sitcom, you’re sitting there on the toilet desperately trying to figure out how to get rid of them without a) anyone seeing, b) leaving them somewhere someone could stumble on them later or c) creating a blockage in the toilet drain that causes the whole thing to back up and overflow.
The uncomfortable and painful necessity that is spreading your legs on a table so someone in a white coat can put tongs that screw open inside you and poke around for a swab from your cervix. (And ladies, as uncomfortable as this is, you need to do it, because if I hadn’t years ago, I may not have been here today to write about it)
The disappointing realisation that almost everyone who’s seen your vagina this year is a professional you’ve paid.
The unease that is trying to hide cleavage sweat on a really humid day. Particularly when you weren’t expecting that day to be hot and humid and you’ve warn material that hides sweat as well as Kim Kardashian hides her large ass.
The uncomfortable feeling of thigh sweat when you can’t move. Like when you're at a press conference in a black pencil skirt and you're all standing in the boiling hot sun for an unnecessarily long time. And with one hand holding a notepad and the other a recorder, there's little you could do about the sweat bead trickling down your leg, that probably looks like pee to someone who's looking that closely.
I’ve never had a condom get lost in my vagina, but I hear that’s pretty awkward too.