sunny bits

Another rainy dark early morning. Despite my vitamin Ds it’s really starting to get me down. I’m walking with my old dog who is swerving like a sad little wino on welfare Wednesday. I tried giving him a sedative from the vet to help him sleep through the night. He still wakes up. He just walks into walls. Poor little dopey fella. I plod along monotone in the endless monochrome, “rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain”.

Up ahead is a neighbour I need to find more understanding for, walking two small yappy dogs I also need to find more understanding for. The one little spindly legged hairless chihuahua I privately call Mr Burns is defecating when it spots me and my dog behind him. The chihuahua starts shaking and growling mid squat while its counterpart pug barks and snorts madly. My dog is blind and deaf and blissfully oblivious to the huge threat he apparently is…

My god that Mr Burns chihuahua is taking a long time to crap. I wait for it to do its business expecting the whole noisy entourage to keep moving once the load has been dropped, but no. The chihuahua’s legs start shaking with the held squat pose, nothing is happening. I am caught gawking, exhausted and somewhat fascinated. My neighbour calls out timidly and slightly annoyed by my lack of consideration, “My dog can’t finish…unless you cross the street”. Before I realize I have even said it, I utter “stupid little thing”.

Oops. Total reflex.

Loud enough to hear? I hope not. I cross the road with my drugged up eighteen and a half year old dog who has absolutely no problem doing his business anywhere, anytime. Yeah. Now that’s a respectable canine. While Tartuffe licks puddles I think about that chihuahua too upset to poo. I probably know people like that. Perhaps people who live close by. Perhaps they get so upset they become all stuck and stopped up and shaky. That would be dreadful. But it happens. It does. The oddest contemplations can lead one to compassion for their fellow human being.

Ah, our bits, we never talk about our bits. Not really. And yet so much life is lived through them. I had my first visit to a gynaecologist yesterday, ever, and I have to say it was absolutely downright pleasant. It was such a relief to chitty-chat specifically about the down under. I mean, it’s fascinating and there’s nobody to share this with except my poor husband and he frankly doesn’t necessarily want to know all of it he just wants it to show up scrubbed and jolly. But really, how wonderful and reassuring to hear from an expert, “Your vagina is in great shape!” I was proud and happy to have that compliment. All day I’ve been walking around with the new unbeknownst to me knowledge that a part of me unseen is in top form I’m a triathlete on the inside, baby. I asked the gynaecologist what bad shape would be. She talked about some horrors like “atrophy”. The conversation moved to various diseases and then labia majora and minora hypertrophy and the fact there has been protest regarding labiaplasty being covered under medical.

“Really?!”

“Yes! People don’t understand how obtrusive and painful it can be for some women.”

I agree. “Gosh, you could lasso a young calf with some labias. Pull it over the head and use it as rain gear. Do cardio with your own skipping rope. Roll out the red carpet for special occasions. Use it to whip a mutinous sailor.”

She chuckled. Told you. A downright pleasant visit.

Today my daughter plays the lead in her tap show. She does great despite her nerves. her thing is stomach aches. While I watch her shine and deliver through what I know are tummy cramps…I recall her talking about the concept of picturing everyone in their underwear as a way to get over the nerves. She felt that backfired and didn’t work at all for her. Me neither.

But picturing people’s bits…yes…actually…when I think of what inevitable troubles they face with their plumbing and privates, I suddenly have compassion for everyone, like my neighbour and the chihuahua. As the kids tap, I go through the people I feel slightly at odds with in my head. I note that I don’t really think I have a problem with anyone, but I have a list of people I feel have a problem with me. Interesting. Why? I am so loveable and easy going and never ever paranoid or forgetful or short tempered or self absorbed. What’s their problem? Like Ms Peevish Private School Parent. Hm. Chronic yeast infection I bet. That explains A LOT. And how about Miss Dismiss. Hm. IBS. That would explain why she cuts conversations short  Mr Dinner-table Dominator. Oh. Well. That one is obvious.

My daughter finishes her show with aplomb. Can she get any cuter? No. She has great instincts up there too, a natural. I am quite proud. Performing runs in the family. Poor kid is doomed for a life on the stage. We go to the mall and I buy her some Tums. We better get home to walk the dog. He won’t last long. As we walk through the food court the lady at the Thai food counter calls out, pointing to the skylight over the tables that suddenly beams rays of mysterious –

“SUN!” She cries. “The SUN!”

We all turn to see. Indeed, sun beams shine down on fast food containers and the tops of heads of mall shoppers. Everything looks like a Mary Pratt painting. People stand up to peer at the sky. People smile. People put down their burgers and look around at strangers and share a moment of joy.