I remember the first time I realized what was expected of me and my vagina regarding the perpetuation of the human race: my sixth-grade science class used an entire pre-lunch period to screen The Miracle of Life, the omnipresent (well, only for biology teachers and pubescent kids) 1983 PBS documentary about reproduction that stars the Debbie Gibson of bushes. (In that it was huge in the ‘80s.) I don’t think I breathed once during those excruciating forty minutes. There was so much I was unprepared for: the presence of EVERY SINGLE FUCKING BODY FLUID all at once, all coalescing all the same operating table; the placenta, which looks like this otherworldly purple meaty sac-purse thing that just pops out after the baby, as if there weren’t enough things on the table for doctors to deal with. Here’s something that Michael Ian Black didn’t crack wise about on I Love the ‘80s: along with Rubix cubes and the word “tubular,” the ‘80s were a time when episiotomies were routine. Do you know what that means? JUST SNIPPING YOUR VAGINA. CUTTING IT LIKE YOU WOULD THE PLASTIC WRAPPER OF THE STRING CHEESE THAT YOU ARE STRUGGLING TO OPEN.
Every muscle in my body is tense and recoiling away from my skin just thinking about childbirth. I mean, just look around the room you’re in and choose a random object. Any object. Good, now answer me this: would you try to fit that in your vagina? No? THEN HOW CAN AN ENTIRE LIVING PERSON MAKE THEIR WAY OUT OF THERE? It hurts when I insert a tampon incorrectly and that’s a tiny wad of cotton!
Apparently these grown-ass men are unfamiliar with the Stephen King-level horrors (and miracles, whatever) of childbirth. One of them was so unprepared for what he was about to see that he brought in a Cup Noodles as if he would have the desire to slurp and snack in-between WATCHING A WOMAN PUSH A RED SLIPPERY THING OUT OF HER VAGINA. Ugh, I need to lie down.
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