The Horror Below.

Today's post began as a not-so-innocent email to friends, but has had such overwhelming response ranging from "Geez you're gross" to "wow, it really must suck to be pregnant" to "I'm glad I'm not the only one with issues." So I've converted said email into todays blog.

I warn you in advance (yes, despite my previous claim to throw disclaimers out the window) that today's post is not for the easily grossed out. So if you weren't thrilled with the boob post earlier this summer, you should stop reading now and just wait for my next "cute baby" blog installment. If you enjoy my "let's just get it all out there attitude" as it's recently been coined (formerly defined as tactless), this one might give you a nice "thank god I'm not knocked up" laugh. Keep in mind that I've performed in the Vagina Monologues 3 times.

So, I don't know if I've just let things get out of hand since my "down there" is slowly edging farther and farther out of view as my belly expands but wtf? When I got all ready to take a shower and clean up last night after a nice Sunday of yardwork and other chores and, I shit you not, I was actually STUCK TOGETHER. That's right. The combo of super-preggo-hair-growth-hormones and excess-preggo-goo can apparently form the world's best chastity belt. I swear, nothing could have gotten through that barrier.

I had to use scissors. (Which by the way, is awfully risky when your uterus is blocking all reasonable view of anything south of the equator.) To top things off after staring at my ever-expanding backside in the mirror with typical disgust, my eyes drifted to my prime meridian and it looked like I was ready to take root if I dared sit bare-assed in a nice flowerbed. Seriously, what do you do to control this? Even if I weren't pregnant, how in God's name can you see AND maneuver any object appropriate for trimming THOSE hedges?? I mean, I'm no porn star, but I generally keep things relatively coifed -- and whiile I know there's some crack fuzz, it's never been noticable to an outside viewer. There may be a stray hair here and there, but it's like my underside has suddenly been cast in as the lead role in the newest werewolf horror flick. And let me tell
you Internet, there was a full moon last night.

But ok, here's my real gripe about the whole teen-wolf-vagina issue. I said something to my husband -- granted, he didn't get the gory details, but he got enough for any reasonable person to hear "I'm feeling fugly." Let me start by explaining that my husband is similar to me in that very little bodily things really gross him out -- at least if there isn't a smell or other sensory offender accompanying the problem. He's very clinical about things. His reaction to my distress: absolutely nothing. It was like I told him I stubbed my toe -- except without the sympathy. On the one hand, I'm glad that he wasn't all grossed out. On the other, seriously, do I have to wear a shirt that says "tell me I'm beautiful in the next 30 seconds or dance the one-handed cha-cha in the shower (by yourself) for the rest of your days"? ....maybe I'll shave that into my new rug -- you think he'd notice?