Just as a little caveat to this story... I have no shame. I'm really, really blunt and do not often censor myself, especially when it's on a blog I'm keeping that was inspired by a break up. So do not read this post if you have delicate sensibilities and do not want to hear about my vagina, my period and a very stupid situation I managed to get myself involved in. I assure you, the details could be much gorier, so don't say I didn't warn you.
Having never been comfortable with any of the typical women's products available, I finally took the plunge last year and tried the Instead soft cup. And oh my god. . I adore using them and I think they're the bee's knees, the cat's meow, an all around noun's noun. If I were asked to choose between them and deodorant, I'd honestly hesitate... but I'd pick deodorant because I'm terrified of smelling bad. But, that being said, if you're me and you're sticking something inside yourself, hilarity will in fact ensue. Everything that happened in this story was ENTIRELY MY FAULT. Do not take this story as a story of typical use, I have never had a problem with the design, feel or comfort of the cup nor with it malfunctioning within the parameters of proper use. That being said, on with the story.
So the other day, due to a series of incidents, I managed to have my cup .... well, to put it delicately, wedged in my bajingo. I went to remove it and... no dice. Ordinarily removal involves hooking your finger around the rim of the cup and gently pulling. My fingers could barely graze the edge of the cup and I thought, ok, maybe I'm irritating it and making the situation worse. I thought no big deal, I was trying to take it out early anyway and there's not a risk of TSS like there is with tampons.
So I waited a while and failed to remove it again. And I think to myself, huh, that's weird. And it really bothers me this time. I realise that it's shifted back inside me so that it's set too far back. Nothing a little angling won't solve! So I shift positions a little and put one foot on the toilet seat as I'm standing in my bathroom. And still nothing. I'm not sure what I'm doing wrong beyond my fingers simply being too short and I decide to experiment a little. So I lie down on the bathroom floor. I sort of squat in the bathtub. I sit on the toilet. And absolutely nothing I'm doing is helping. Instead, I'm pretty confident that I'm pushing it just a little further in with each attempt. Around the time I find myself on all fours on my bed attempting to pull it out from behind, I start to think, ok... I might actually have a problem here.
At this point, in between frantically fingering myself, I text my best friend, explain the situation to her and she calmly says, oh, yeah, I've had that happen. You just need to break the seal. It's easy. Maybe try a spoon. But very very carefully.
Now, gentle reader, I don't know how much experience you've had with sticking inanimate objects in your nethers, but let me tell you, anything metal that isn't being handled by a doctor shouldn't have any business in your ladyparts. I know this. My logical, every day brain knows this full and damn well. But three hours into a heavy panic, anything seems logical. You read that right. I'd been wracking my brain for THREE HOURS trying to get this stupid thing out. I will leave the ensuing attempts mercifully vague, but don't be surprised to know that I attempted to stick a spoon in my vagina and it did not fit.
If you're the kind of logical and well balanced person I hope you are, at this point, you're asking yourself, why didn't you go to the emergency room? And the answer to that is a two, no, a three-parter. First of all, although I am insured, I've yet to pay my co-pay and doctors is expensive, kids. Second. I was really, really convinced I could get it out. That I could circumvent physiology and outsmart not only my internal structure but the length of my fingers with cold logic. And it ended as well as one would imagine, which is pretty damn poorly. And third, well... I'm sure I'm not the first person who's been in this situation. You can have sex with these things in and I hear it's not noticable AT all, so I'd imagine removal is a pretty simple and routine process at the county ER located a few minutes from my house. But damnit, I was embarrassed, ya'll. It's one thing to tell this as a STORY to friends and strangers. But when you're contemplating being spreadeagled on a cold exam table in front of someone who's possibly pulled glass or maggots or god knows what out of an open wound in the last twenty four hours, you might feel a little squeamish. Plus, since it's a very non-life threatening condition, who knows how long I'd have to wait? I really, really didn't wanna go to the doctor.
So what else is a girl to do? I can't get it out by myself and I am not going to the doctor. Oh yes. We come at last to the audience participation portion of my emergency. And let me tell you, it's a pretty illuminating looking at your life when you sit and evaluate which of your friends are most likely to not only understand how you got yourself into such a situation in the first place but would also be willing to stick their finger in your hooha and pull out a feminine hygiene product. It's eye-opening.
I mean, look at your list of friends. Hell, look at your text history for the past day. These are people you confide your secrets to, the people you try to impress with your wit and who you feel the need to update in a nearly instant fashion, probably on the daily. How many of them would you even be willing to ASK to help you with something this intimate? How many do you think would say yes? And more importantly: how many would you say yes to if presented with the same request? Your "Finger a Friend" lifeline is something you probably aren't even aware that you're earning daily, but apparently for each of us, there comes a time where you have to ask someone, "so listen... how close are we really?"
Most of my very close friends have moved away in the past few years, so I'm going through a list of people who've known me around a year or for less than three months.It takes me a few minutes to go through my phonebook and pick the most likely candidates that I'd be comfortable asking. One girl flat out says no. The next is literally elbows deep in her screen-printing workshop and will not be available for hours (though the image of her hands coated in red ink made it seem like she was rooting for me, at least). Another had left her phone at Target and didn't respond to my plea til a couple days after. My very last chance call goes to voicemail and I'm having to face facts, it's hospital o'clock. Prospects are not looking good and finally I text one of my most recent friends to keep me company while I wait for god knows how long.
Now this is a person I barely know. We may be eskimo buddies, but we are not super close.
me: hey wanna keep me company while I go to the hospital?
amazing friend: well, yeah, do you want some company or some help?
me: depends on what kind of help you mean...
amazing friend: well, my fingers are longer than yours.
me: I'll be there in ten minutes.
me: make it fifteen. I'm gonna wash up.
So I'm nearly in tears from relief, I drive over to her house, giddy at the prospect of the nightmare being over. She's of course shared the story with her three roommates and while the two boys stay downstairs, heavily engrossed in the copy of X-Men Legends II that I'd loaned them, she, her female roommate and I all head upstairs to do a pre-shot. Pinnacle Cake Vodka is quickly imbibed and we step into the bathroom where I remove my pants and sit on the toilet, the towel I'd asked for to modestly drape myself with is quickly cast aside because, well, she's gotta see it to figure out where she's going. And at first, she crouches in front of me, just looking. She says, Ok, I have one of these, but I'm not sure where to start. The instant she touches me, we all jump up and look at each other very uncomfortably. My pants are put back on and we go to do another shot. The boys clap because they think, oh, it's loud and giggly, they've clearly accomplished something. Nope. Sorry, boys.
We head back into the bathroom trying to figure out where I'm going to sit for best positioning, because the toilet's not cutting it. Her roommate hits on the small ledge that's built into their tub behind the faucet. Various shampoos and soaps are cleared away and before you know it, I'm bare-assed on the ledge with my friend's finger inside me while her roommate looks awkwardly on, my legs braced against the sink and the shower wall. I'm not sure exactly what to do. I can't really give her directions because I can't really feel where it is. I don't know if I should say something encouraging, because what am I gonna say? This is way better than the first time a guy fingered me? So I start to babble some small talk to her roommate while she digs around because, as she put it, "boy that's really in there!"
The suddenly, a look of equally blended triumph and disgust that was oddly reminiscent of the look on someone's face when they pull the bag of giblets out of a frozen turkey crossed her face. She's done it! I'm free! And it's in the bathtub!
As my friend frantically washed her hands and I scrambled clean up the bathtub while being conscious that my naked lower half was on full display still, I was struck by how normal I felt after what had just happened went down. I mean, on the one hand, yeah, it's bizarre and my friend has now been face to face in a brightly lit room with the entirety of my bidness, but she did it out of love. She helped me because she knew I needed her. That's huge. Once we're all cleaned up and put back together, my superhero friend, her roommate and I celebrated with a cigarette on the front porch and a heart to heart about some serious issues that had been plaguing people we know. I felt closer to them at that moment there, and after hugs ensued, along with much laughter and fuzzy heads induced by Pinnacle Cake Vodka, I realised, this is something I'd missed for a long time. Knowing that I could trust someone and knowing that just like I've got their back, they've got mine. Just knowing, just knowing that I have a friend that I can turn to and not only will they laugh at the mess I make of myself, but they'll also dive right in after me and help me fix it. That's kind of thing you can't take lightly. That's the kind of thing that real love is made of and I swear, I'll never forget.
Because at the end of the day, your heart might be broken and your hands might get bloody, and yeah, you might just end up half-naked with your legs spread apart in your friend's bathroom. But damnit. If you've got friends who will finger you when it's really necessary, what the hell else do you really need?
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