I have a strange problem. My fiancé, Mr. T is wonderful. He has short, cropped hair, wears denims and white tees that look really good on his strapping 6 ft body. He’s intelligent and he has this lovely voice that echoes in my ear, when he talks while I have my head on his shoulder. He also has a really funny sense of humour and when I make him laugh, his eyes crinkle and he looks at me like I’m his favourite ice cream flavor. Yummmm.
That’s not the problem, obviously. For me to explain what exactly my particular predicament is, I have to go back 15 years, when I was 15. I had just finished my 10th grade and I was mulling over what to do, wondering, which illustrious field would benefit from my natural intelligence and inherent professionalism. The world of science, commerce and arts were waiting with baited breath, each of them secretly hoping I’ll choose them.
At this point, my aunt who was a gynaecologist approached me. In fear, I assured her my periods were regular and my ovaries were well. She smiled patiently and then looked at me with a glittering eye. In that gaze I saw a million hopes dancing. I saw her seeing me taking over her lucrative practice, while she relaxed completely, except for an occasional instruction, like, ‘Wind the umbilical cord the other way.’
I was right. She convinced my mother that I should intern at her clinic for three weeks and if I liked the beautiful process of ‘bringing life into this world’, then she would pay for medical college. My mother’s eyes glittered with the vision of all the gold she’ll buy with my college fees and I was packed off.
It was my first day and I must admit I was pretty excited. I walked into the clinic and saw, S, crawled up like a fetus and moaning softly on the waiting bench outside. Now I knew S, as she was my senior in college. I also vaguely remembered that S’s parents and my aunt were family friends.
Quickly I went up to my aunt and told her about S. My aunt immediately marched out and clutching S to her bosom, muttered, “Why didn’t you walk in? I am just like your mother?” She whimpered some words, which I couldn’t make out. Patching together my aunt’s coochi-cooing and S’s pained mumblings, I figured out the problem. Her sanitary belt had gotten stuck deep down there and was creating immense jolts of pain that were ripping apart her body. Ouch.
My aunt, a very good doctor, immediately asked her to take off her pants and panties. Inspite of the pain, she managed it, with what I thought bitchily, an ease of familiarity. Now here comes my problem. I had thought till now that I was invisible as both women were focused on each other. To my surprise, my aunt turns to me and asks me to shine a torch down her, umm, hole. Well, I knew how to use a torch and my aunt knew how to use those steel tongs. The sanitary belt, which looked like a wire, came out in one smooth motion. It looked quite vile, especially because it had some white mucous-ey thing dripping from it. Ewww.
Well, S’s pain was gone but so were my dreams of being a gynaecologist. I couldn’t imagine a life of looking down the tunnels of women, my soul was filled with the poetry of life and not the potty of making it happen. Oh, you’re still waiting for me to tell you the problem. Well S is T’s sister and I feel a bit weird about marrying a man whose sister’s woo-woo I have seen.
Instinctively, I knew it wasn’t a problem I could discuss with T. To make things worse, I had to meet S, today, and I still hadn’t resolved my discomfort. Now S was one of those beautiful snotty babes, who thought her brother was god’s gift to women. I admit he was, and I knew she thought he was too good for the types of me.
We met at a coffee shop. I had dressed with care but she still made me feel like a scabby dog that liked pink. The conversation was strained and at one point I tried to tell a joke about three men on roller skates, a sheep and an alligator that had a tooth problem. Well, it was funny when I read it. After I finished, both of them looked at me strangely, including my wonderful Mr. T.
I returned the look, focusing more on S, and thought, ‘Stop looking at me weirdly, I have seen your vagina, bitch.’ The air seemed to shift. Their look had gone from ‘what’s she saying’ to ‘WHAT’S SHE SAYING??!!!! That’s when I realized I had spoken aloud. Oh – ooo.
Both of them immediately got up and walked out. Though my thoughtful Mr. T paid the bill before disappearing. Now you see my problem. I don’t think T will ever even talk to me and my explanation is going to sound so demented, that even if he does give me a fair hearing, he’s going to run a mile. Sigh. True love ruined by a sanitary belt. Thank god pads come with those sticky peel-offs now.