It has come to my attention that there are people out there who are genuinely concerned about the state of their minge. Like, actually. Not in a Daily Mail ‘My vagina ruined my life!’ kind of way, but in a real, properly a bit self-conscious about it kind of way. APPARENTLY some people are so anxious over the state of it they are having totally unnecessary surgery or having it bleached (!), which I just can’t get my head around. If you’re that stressed out by the colour of your crumpet then what happens when you get a cold sore? Or a monster zit? Or sunburn? You know, shit people are going to actually notice (and even then, probably not.) The mind boggles.
Anyway, worry not needless handwringers, I am here to assuage your fears! Because, although I am not a doctor, I can assure you there is absolutely nothing – NOTHING – wrong with your lady parts.
First off, unless your twat has a face or a thumb or anything else completely out there, you are not abnormal. Whether you’ve got a beautiful lotus flower or a sloppy Joe squooshed between your legs, it really does not matter that much. Let us consider the various people who may get an eyeful of your tuppence at some point:
1. Your parents. Don’t want to dwell on this too much as the thought makes me want to drown in my own vomit, but they have. Even your dad.
2. Medical professionals. Chances are you’ve had to bare your chuff to a nurse or physician on at least one occasion (and if not, why not?) and they have not only seen uglier muffs than yours but have also seen them oozing with pus, covered in blisters and also being stretched to breaking point by tiny people trying to climb out. If you are worried because one side of your gash isn’t perfectly symmetrical with the other, you are BEING RIDICULOUS. Count yourself lucky it’s something practically invisible that’s on the wonk and not, say, your nose, which everyone can see.
3. People who, frankly, are so ecstatic to be in a position where they can see it they literally could not give half a crap whether it looks like a perfectly formed strawberry macaroon or a beef and horseradish bap. There comes in time in every girl’s life when she realises that blokes actually do not register ANYTHING – not cellulite, not stretch marks, not wonky boobs – when they think they are going to get laid. My friend Carla put it best: “To be honest, once I’m naked I don’t give a fuck. As soon as I take my clothes off it’s too late for them and they’re just going to have to DEAL WITH IT.” Wise words, my friend, wise words.
Beauty therapists also get a special mention as they not only have to deal with a veritable smorgasbord of gash on a daily basis but also have to cover them in hot wax with a spatula before ripping the bejesus out of them. But I figure that anyone that concerned about their bikini zone would probably go down the DIY route rather than crack it out (no pun intended) in front of a wax-wielding stranger.
In summary, your flange may not be your most beautiful feature, but it doesn’t matter, because a) hardly anyone sees it anyway, b) the people who do don’t care and c) let’s be honest here, nobody’s exactly hiding an oil painting in their gusset. I remember once, for instance, in Year 6 Sex Ed the girls were told to go home and squat over a mirror as homework. I remember the exact moment I stared down into the reflection, horrified, because it was without a doubt the day my childhood died. If you give a kid a Barbie doll and then tell her to check out what’s really going on, there’s definitely going to be an element of surprise. And by ‘surprise’ I mean ‘long-term trauma’. It looked like the Kraken. You know that scene at the end of Pirates of the Caribbean where the sea beastie lunges out of the ocean to swallow Johnny Depp and his boat? Yeah. Like that. But fewer teeth.
So don’t despair! Even if you’re not utterly enchanted by what nature gave you, it could be so much worse. You could be a bloke, and their junk is way nastier.