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Saturday, March 20, 2010

A scene from Psycho

In exactly two weeks I will be off to sunny (cross fingers here) Arizona to join my mother and other great company for seven days of lazy!  Sooo excited, for the most part.  As previously mentioned, I have been dieting in preparation for this vaycay and it's going rather well.  What I haven't prepared for this trip is my southern region, my "twain" if you will.  Today I started thinking that with all that is growing going on inferior to my umbilicas, I should probably start the bikini prep now so that one: there will be less maintenance once poolside and two: starting now would leave ample room for any incident such as ingrown hairs, razor bumps or accidental snipping of the labia minora.  What? you ask?  Well it's your lucky, ahem...unlucky day cause I'm in the mood to tell a good story, even if means looking back at a very painful and traumatizing memory.


Toward the end of my pregnancy I decided to do very minimal trimming of my Don King due mostly in part of visibility issues.  Accessibility was somewhat limited unless I contorted my full-term body into compromising positions. But I didn't want to alarm my OB doctor either.  I know, he has seen it all but not on me, not yet.  I had stayed trimmed up out of respect for him.  I already had anxiety about the possibility of having a bowel movement during the delivery and if that was gonna happen I didn't want the turd(s) to get lost in a nest of all things hairy.  This meant very careful and precise riddance of even the fuzz that happily hangs its ugly head on your...yes...taint. 


After the baby came I stayed out of that area, this time out of respect for that area.  I had stitches, afterall. So I soaked and I soaked but I let the tarantula thrive.  Until, that is, my six week follow up appointment.  Now, I don't know if breastfeeding had anything to do with it, but that shit grew and spread like a sod farm since I'd last paid any attention to it.  It was obvious to me that I would be needing Edward Scissorshands.  Not a problem.  I'll just grab my trusty (somewhat rusty) little scissors for the occasion, and invite a brand new shaver blade to the party as well!  And we're off. 


Something I otta mention is that the hot water in our upstairs shower runs out quickly, especially in times of shaving ones legs, pits and muffy so I went directly to my Kramer and started to clip clip clip away at the thicket below.  I went in like a dozer clearing the brush for a manicured landscape.  It was going rather well, but I was starting to get a little worried about losing my heat so I sped things up and got a little sloppy.  A lot sloppy.  And then this.  As I pulled the hair out and away from my hood, I took one quick snip at the gathered tuft and then did this.


AAAUUGH! 


Actually I don't remember hearing sound come from my mouth, just a really loud silent scream.  And then this. 


Blood everywhere.


You know when you cut yourself shaving, how the blood in water, for some reason, looks like three times more than it actually is?  Well, this was that times ten.  I imagine even Janet Leigh would have been grossed out and only Carrie could remotely relate.  Red was running down my inside thigh and Pink was pooling in the tub and spinning down the drain like a Paint'N'Swirl art machine.  I immediately expelled the scissors from my possession and transfered my injured privates to the toilet.  It was here, out of the water, that the pain set in. It felt like a burn or paper cut, only with a tad more intesity and throbbing.  I didn't really know what to do with the vascular area, so I took some toilet paper and held pressure.  I was not expecting what I saw next.  I gently took off the soiled tissue and inspected the delicate inner lip.  To my horror, I had lacerated it enough to expose the fat.  Not good.  Not right.  Not know what to do.  I decided my 6 week follow up could wait so I canceled that appointment.  I mean really. How would I explain this to the doc who did a much better job on my episiotomy.  I decided in the end to ride it out to see what would happen and then this.


It started to heal together UNEVENLY!


Moist areas tend to heal quickly, such as in the mouth.  Well this unplanned incision started to fuse back together GODSPEED, and I don't get God most of the time.  At this point I felt disfigured.  I was disfigured.  Pulverized by my decision to approach a tender task full throddle.  I botched my crotch.  Is this something I could live with?  Would I need cosmetic surgery?  Certainly I couldn't go under the knife for something so minor-a.  Or could I?


Well, fast forward a few very sore episodes of wiping and several days of cumbersome clothes rubbing and the funny little lip actually healed quite nicely and not all jagged like it initially appeared it would.  I went to my six week follow up a week late and I guarantee that even with the voluminous, luminous light shining down on the injured flap, my doc didn't notice a thing. 


Since that episode two years ago, I have been very shell shocked and slack on my upkeep.  I have been avoiding any extensive decor tactics down yonder.  I might run a quick shave along side each bikini junction, but those scissors have yet to show up at another shaving gala.  Apparently, fear is a factor, but now is the time to face it.  Clean up my act.  Give Lady Gaga a new do and hopefully avoid a don't.  Wish me luck.

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