…The vagina shows up again to liven things up.
Have you ever read about Bipolar Disorder, aka Manic Depressive Disorder? I did a few research papers on the subject in high school and then subsequently in college (because I already had the material – and I’m lazy). I started researching it because my parents would occasionally express concern that they thought I had it. They were evidently confusing the bipolar symptoms with the symptoms of another serious disorder called being a teenager.
I did become fascinated with the disorder, though. Not so much the depressive part; it sucked. But the manic part was pretty damn intriguing. I would usually read about it on Monday, but I would always wish that it was Sunday, because that’s my fun day.
I wanted to live in the world these people lived in during their manic stage. This world was magical. There were so many famous actors and comedians who were bipolar, and a lot of their inspiration came from the manic state. It was kind of cool and I almost felt as if I had manic disorder. Not manic depressive disorder, because I am never depressed. I do have a little bit of a temper sometimes, though, which makes me get angry, so maybe I have Manic Occasional Anger Disorder. We must immediately apply for grants to research this new potential disorder.
I am super messy, too. Although that’s not a disorder as much as it is just laziness. I prefer to view it as organized chaos, but I think the rest of the world sees it as utterly disgusting or simply annoying. If there is one thing that I am strangely clean and OCD about, though, it’s contact cases and lenses. That may seem weird, but it’s true. I’m a complete psycho about contacts.
A couple of years ago my contacts were bothering me and making me look like a drunk-daywalking-vampire, so I had to switch to daily disposable contacts. But then my husband started to get jealous that he couldn’t fall asleep on the couch with his contacts in, wake up three hours later to peel them out before immediately falling back asleep again. He evidently didn’t want me to be the only one with that superpower in our household. What a lazy slob he was for that being his reasoning to want to spend four times as much on contact lenses.
Back to me being lazy and weird…For the most part, I could care less about a messy bathroom. Our bathroom is very small, so thankfully it doesn’t take a long time to tidy it up if I ever need to. A little bit of hair on the sink, plaque and product on the mirror, an overflowing trashcan, and a half used toilet paper roll sitting on top of the empty toilet paper roll… none of that bothers me. To me it just shows that there is clearly a man and woman sharing a bathroom and living life together. What does bother me, however, is the mother effing contact cases and lenses.
The whole point of daily disposable contacts is so you can throw the cases away as soon as the contact is in your eye. But, no, my husband refuses to do this. He leaves the empty cases out everywhere, and randomly takes out his contacts at night and throws them over by the trashcan, which they never reach. Or, for some unknown reason, sometimes he puts them in the toilet, which is right by the mother effing trashcan. It’s almost like he’s trying to make me have Manic Occasional Anger Disorder. It’s a constant battle of: do I throw them away for him, and he’ll never learn? Or do I constantly yell at him and give him more ammo to think that I’m crazy?
It’s just strange and stressful. And having a young child is stressful enough, but having a supposedly immortal vagina with issues healing post-birth only adds to the perplexity of the situation. Give me a break, I’ve gone a really long time without talking about vaginas. You all knew it was coming. (Insert a That’s What She Said joke here). Anyway, I developed a vaginal infection shortly after my child was born. I have no idea how or why that happens, but the midwife said it was red and angry. I’m not sure if that’s better or worse than a manic vagina, though. Thoughts?
So, I was instructed by the midwives to take two or three baths per day with epsom salt to help my vaj-a-laj heal. I’m pretty sure that probably just applied to the first couple of weeks postpartum, but what my husband didn’t know certainly didn’t hurt me. But after weeks and weeks of long baths, one day I decided I wanted to take a shower instead. As I was happily scrubbing away, I looked down and saw it. An effing contact lens on the floor of the bathtub. At first I was grossed out, but then I was concerned. This contact wasn’t old and shriveled up so I thought maybe it had just fallen out of my eye. It seemed like I could see fine, though, so I bent down to pick it up and investigate. While standing back up, I slipped on the floor of the bathtub. My butt hit the lip on the side of the tub. Then my head flew back and hit the toilet before my whole body hit the ground. (Cue the song, “Let the Bodies Hit the Floor”). My husband was in the other room, but said he heard a loud THUD, (pause), THUD, THUD! so he came running in to see me naked and wet, rolling around on the floor, still holding a contact on my finger. He was all, “Did you really just almost die trying to put in your contacts while showering? Are you okay, by the way?”
I was obviously not okay. My pride was hurt and my vagina was still angry. When I finally got to actually look at the contact, it said “OK”. This was clearly not my contact, as mine are simply tinted and don’t have anything written on them. I find it somewhat ironic that the whole point of the contact saying “OK” is so you know that’s the right way to put it in your eye. If it’s inverted, it says “KO” which is exactly what that damn thing did to me. It Knocked my ass Out.
But the fact that it said “OK” was as if the fortune-cookie-contact was telling me that it would all eventually be okay, even if they did misspell “okay” on the lens.
Or it might have just been hanging out on the ground trying to look up my vagina the whole time as I showered. Fucking pervert contact.