By: Ann Brown
The line at Starbucks on Christmas morning was long. The talk was lively. And the topic was hysterectomies. At least, that’s what I talked about with the nice lady in front of me.
Maybe it was the Christmas spirit, or the bonhomie of a crowded Starbucks on a winter’s day, or the power of sisterhood but the conversation skirted the small talk and moved along quickly. It went something like this:
Me: (smiling benignly) Wow, long line.
She: I have to have a hysterectomy.
Awkward silence. I attempted to normalize the conversation once more.
Me: Wow, really long line.
She: If they take your cervix out, you can’t have orgasms during intercourse anymore.
I was at a loss for a response. Another stab at “wow, long line” just wasn’t gonna cut it after that intriguing fact.
But was it a fact? Here is where I am suddenly remorseful that I made fun of my sister a few blog posts back because she only recently learned where the hymen is located. Because although I am quite familiar with the general whereabouts of my cervix, and I can say, with more than a modicum of gratuitous pride, that I have dilated mine – twice – to the size where an actual person’s head squeezed through, I was surprised that a cervix is involved in an orgasm. I mean, isn’t the cervix waaay up there? Like, in Canada?
Wow. My first thought was to congratulate my new friend on the length of her husband’s weener.
“Good for you, honey!” I wanted to say.
But then I worried that I’d be casting aspersions on the length of my husband’s weener. And even though Robin wasn’t there, even though he was innocently waiting for me in the car listening to NPR, even though his weener is perfectly fine, what if when Cervix Woman walked out of Starbucks and saw me get into the car with Robin, she smirked or made a “oh, poor you, with the short penis” gesture at him? How would I explain that to Robin? It’s bad enough that he lives with the paranoia that I talk about him all the time in parenting group, now I am telling perfect strangers in line at Starbucks, ON CHRISTMAS DAY, the day Jesus was born, that I could go with or without a cervix because, uh (and I’d lean in closer here), well, my husband’s weener doesn’t reach there. What if she thought I was complaining, that I was trying to tell her that Robin is alarmingly unendowed, what if she goes home thinking that he and I just bump flat surfaces around down there for fifteen minutes or so and then call it a night?
Robin would totally not be down with that. He might even begin reading my blog, just to check. And that would definitely affect my writing mojo. (In my defense, I did show him the first few posts when I started out a few months ago, just to make sure he was cool with what I was writing but he perused about three sentences, said to me, “are there ever going to be any car chases or anything in this?” and when I told him no, he deleted “drstrangemom” from his Favorites.)
Still, there were questions to be asked about the cervix/orgasm issue.
Unfortunately, however, they will remain forever unanswered because at that very moment my new friend’s lattes (nonfat with two Splendas for her husband, cocoa for her; I heard her order) were ready and she high-tailed it outta there. Rushing home to her foot-long man, no doubt, to get the most use out of her cervix while she still had it. And maybe have him clean out her sinuses and wax her eyebrows while he was up there.
I climbed back into the car and handed Robin his grande double bold drip.
Yeah. You heard me.
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