I just got back from a three day, kid-free, island getaway with my husband, and I gotta tell you, I need a full-on vagina transplant!
It's not what you think.
The island in question is Block Island, Rhode Island, which is
one of my favorite places (and I've seen a lot of places). We had a
small, old romantic room
in a very, very old charming inn. The whole
excursion was in celebration of my husband's birthday. As the good wife I am, I
do things my husband wants to do on his birthday.
I said it's not what you think.
So why the vagina transplant? Well, I'm a say "yes" kind of girl.
Still not what you think.
One of the things I pride myself on, and something that totally helped my husband fall for me, is that I'm up for just about anything.
Seriously, I said it's not what you think.
Want to go drink a bottle of wine over lunch? Sure. Want to go for a walk that ends up involving 5 hours of us lost and disoriented in the woods? You betcha! Want to bring our bikes to Block Island and ride for hours and hours and hours and hours for a couple of days? Why not? What could go wrong?
Now, when I say "vagina transplant" I'm not speaking with precise anatomical correctness. My vagina itself is actually in pretty good shape. It's the entire labial area that I need exchanged, please.
Whoever designed bike seats hates women.
Whoever suggests a woman ride a bike for hours and hours clearly does not want to do anything else with that woman's lady bits for a long, long time.
So, until my number comes up on the transplant list, please ignore my winces when I sit down. And if you see me walking with an uncomfortable bow-legged gait, refrain from hi-fiving my husband.