A week and a half ago, I was diagnosed with a confused uterus. My uterine bewilderment carried over into a third week, rendering me the poster girl for anemia, and causing feminine hygiene product company CEOs to wonder why in the hell there was a significant sales spike in just one city on the BC coast.
Naturally, I wanted my uterus to compose itself already, but I was at a loss as to how to counsel the damned thing. Admittedly, I have no particular use for it at this time, and want no dealings with it in the future.
I don't want children, so if it hadn't been for a giant diagram of the female reproductive organs projected on a pull-down screen in my grade seven sex-ed class, I would even be hard-pressed to find it on a map.
Essentially, my relationship with my uterus to date has been more about minimum tolerance rather than love and understanding.
(This is more than I can say for my relationship with the idea of birthing a child. Immediately following the black and white diagram of a uterus, ovaries and fallopian tubes, we were shown a video of a woman giving birth, as seen from between her legs. Sweet cracker sandwich...the horror. It was at this point I vowed I would never, ever have sex.)
(Ummm...I've modified this vow somewhat since that time - I now vow never to have sex for the purpose of procreation. Any other reason is fine.)
The point to all of this is that I had no idea how to shake some sense into my wayward uterus. I tried poking my tummy at the exact point I thought my uterus might be (that sex ed. slideshow was a long time ago OK?) in hopes that it would startle into ceasing whatever the hell it thought it was doing.
All this did was demonstrate very clearly that I might want to consider abdominal exercises in the future, whenever I stop bleeding to death very, very slowly.
I fell asleep with a magazine open to an article on menopause, strategically placed over my belly button. Perhaps my uterus could take a lesson through osmosis. No luck.
There was nothing else to do but languish, and compose way cooler causes of death I'd want my family and friends to mention in public, rather than telling people I died of a confused uterus.
Languishing and feeling sorry for myself on my couch was working brilliantly, right up until I got a text message.
If there's ever a bad time to be hearing from the married firefighter you're sleeping with, full languish over uterine hemorrhaging would be that time.
(For the record - I am NOT a home wrecker. They have an open relationship - seriously. I've met her. We've all had drinks together. Yes, it's just as weird as you think it is.)
(I suppose this makes me a mistress...? No. That implies it's a secret. Girlfriend...? Not even close. Stupid-ass...? Oh definitely.)
(Stupid-ass because this is a dumb thing to be doing when what I would really rather be doing is meeting a guy I can have a relationship with.)
(Stupid-ass because it takes a tremendous force of will to be that intimate with somebody and NOT develop feelings that should be slapped right out of my head. This is force of will I should be using to do abdominal exercises instead, as per above.)
At any rate, I didn't feel like responding and that is a rare occurrence. A friend of mine has warned me that because of the nature of my relationship with this married firefighter, I've put him on a pedestal.
I've never seen the firefighter look bad, smell bad, be annoying, cranky or leaving the toothpaste cap off. All I ever see him do is a)look really hot in uniform b)perform incredible acts of manliness, and c)pleasure me senseless.
All true, and so I argue I have not put him on a pedestal, simply because that would be aiming too low. Lust does crazy things to people, and by people, I mean me.
And yet, though wanting to languish some more, I answered. Within minutes the conversation turned completely inappropriate for anybody with the slightest shred of morals or decency, to the point every phrase would have to undergo serious editing to spare my family shame. This includes all past and future ancestors.
"I can't wait to (redacted for common decency) in the (seriously, if my parents ever read this I would have to move)kitchen counter (well at least my Dad would stop worrying if I might be a lesbian because I'm never dating anybody)ceiling tiles (I don't think this is what my Dad has in mind though)so hard (redacted on behalf of the Catholic church)goats with a spatula."
We talked like this for hours, which is really hard to do while also trying to follow an episode of Criminal Minds and cook a stir-fry. And yet I managed. We agreed we needed to get together very soon, and a good time was had by all.
This conversation cheered me up considerably, but it also did something else.
Something unexpected.
I stopped bleeding.
I don't mean it slowed to a trickle or it tapered off gradually, or I started to feel better. It. Stopped. Completely.
Whatever faucet left on in my uterus was twisted shut. It's now days later, and still nothing. My cheeks looked rosy today, I'm not cramping and I while I can nap at any time, I'm not actually napping at this moment. It's like it never happened.
Some may say the timing of my miraculous recovery is nothing but coincidence. Actually, the majority of people I know would argue this is coincidence and the rest would just shake their heads at me but I'm thinking there's a reason I've put this guy on a pedestal.
Four hours of straight sexting with a firefighter clarified my confused uterus. There's the slimmest of possibilities it stopped suddenly on its own, for reasons just as mysterious as why it all started in the first place, but I'd like to believe other wise.
Next time I see the married firefighter I'm going to find a way to put his hands over my eyes. I've been looking into Lasik surgery and the cost is prohibitive. I feel it's worth a try.
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