Like a Vagina Needs a Bicycle

I'm going to be honest with you. I'm writing this on Sunday night, post-Oscars, pre-road trip, destination Estrogen, population: Schizo. (You there on your Tuesday: you did not know it but by reading this post you're entering a time warp, a look back when we were all two days younger and the world was but a wee blue marble. Now look at us: two days older, jaded, the earth wise.) So yes, here I am, Sunday night and buying time with this pre-fab post, the fab most certainly standing for fabricated and not fabulous. My hair is wet, freshly showered, my house seeming to sway to the hum of the dishwasher. It is quiet. I have a feeling I won't be able to write while at my friend's house. Or breathe.

No matter--in my (not so) absence I give you this: Vagina on a Bicycle. (Alternate title: Woman with Unfortunate Hat, depending on where you stand.) With the birth of a new baby, talk at my friend's house will almost certainly repeatedly turn to the source, even if it was via c-section.

So there's that, this photo; and then there's this: me on a couch somewhere two days from now, probably complaining how Bryan never hangs up his jacket. I will be eating Chex Mix, maybe, picking out the pretzels because they suck and are stale. Zoey will be playing with her friends, the Backyardigans will be on, Uniqua and Tyrone, then the new baby will cry, her bleating mews causing my own faded pink c-section scar to ache, like a sailor portending rain. And I will wonder: is it just like riding a bicycle? The vagina: does it ever forget?

Happy Fat Tuesday, tout le monde. Laissez le bons temps roulez.
With love from Sunday,
Susannah