No one wants to hear about my vagina right now…
“No one wants to hear about my vagina right now, ” I stated, in the midst of our serious discussion. My friend burst out laughing, her throaty, slightly hysterical laughter, before repeating my line, which set her off again. I was kind of mortified but laughed too, protesting that it wasn’t as bad as it sounded. “I mean, I meant — No one is hoping for that image, right? At any time! But especially now!” The more I explained, the more she trilled, choking on it.
We were discussing the sudden dissipation of all of our regular work, the lock-down, and whether, with time on our hands, we could summon creative work: write. Before the COVID-19 crisis, I had written a story about what I thought was a funny and embarrassing trip to the GP, part of my journey of sexual discovery in middle age. I had been about to hit publish when this all happened, the virus and ensuing panic, fear and trauma.
My vagina story felt from another time, pathetic, absurd and frivolous in this context of Corona and loss of life. But it had served a glorious purpose: I explored my humiliation and laughed at myself in writing it, and my friend, who I had not heard laugh like that in an age, for a moment, forgot her worries. The vagina, that secret garden has incredible powers.
