You’re so VAIN


I’ve been clear, for two and a half years; VAIN, not vanity; a little insane.

I shall elaborate, for this isn’t clear. Ladies, have you had a smear recently? I recommend you do; you too could be VAIN.

This is a tough one to address. I’ll try to do my best and not waffle a lot of falafel.

VAIN, or to put it another way, VAginal Intra-epithelial Neoplasia; not easy to say with a mouthful of shredded wheat, and turns out it wasn’t that easy to beat. I spent twenty-five years of my life under the knife.

Bits were removed, burnt, cut, frozen, but the nasty little cells kept coming back, like a bad penny. Procedures were many; hospital visits more routine than trips to the dentist. I was no longer phased by a student nurse’s gaze into my best bits – I was education to the nation!

Every year I’d be patched up with a temporary fix. No connubials for a week or two, or, six. Depending on the extent of the measure, was how much I was afforded my pleasure.

What started with hopeful mutterings of, “This should be the last”, became feeble utterings of, “So much time has passed and we still don’t know why they keep coming back”.

I was burnt, I was frozen, I was cut some more, to the point where I wasn’t even feeling sore. I joked about how I was being dismantled bit by bit; pretended I didn’t really give a shit, whilst wondering, “How much general anaesthetic can one person take, before their brain cells start to bake?”

And then I came of age. Forty-five, it would seem, is when they deem your sex drive fades. Um, hellooooo, isn’t this the time I’m in my prime?

A partial vaginectomy was thrown on the table and, naturally, I wondered if I would be able to… well, you know. Time would tell, and I can now surmise that it was all a blessing in disguise.

Not only do I have the ability – I have extra sensitivity, and a firm grip, so I’m told… on reality. Really?

Two and a half years I’ve been clear. Ladies, might I recommend you have a smear?