I’m going to take a page from Shinejil‘s playbook (who, if you have a moment could use some extra love – she’s having the worst possible luck right now) and regale you with a tale of my embarrassments of old. While you may think that I am a polished, graceful woman who never leaves the house without the proper attire and refinement, I too have had my share of less than graceful moments.
This is one of those moments.
I met Mr. X in 2000 and knew immediately that he was something special. As such, I decided that I would not sleep with him until I was certain that it was right. Things progressed, we became an item, and soon we were planning for that special night. It happened to coincide with the last day of my exams of my first year of grad school. Oh, the heady liqueur of anticipation was swirling around me so that I was actually quite useless studying for said exam.
Instead, I decided to tidy up the nether regions since they would take center stage the next night. A friend had recently enlightened me as to the newest dipilatory craze – the buzz shaver. I had used it previously and it really did wonders. So, I whipped it out again, fully expecting that it would be a few lines here and there and poof, I would be nice and streamlined.
What really happened is I was recklessly running the shaver like Mario Andretti and managed (and I still cringe here) to nick myself, you know, down there. Mother of God and all that is holy did it hurt. And I was bleeding! So, I’m mildly freaking out because I am scheduled to take an exam the next day, have sex for the first time with a really special guy AND I’ve managed to nick myself in the worst possible spot. And, I’m still bleeding. 30 minutes later, still bleeding. It’s midnight by now. Call the nurse practitioner line, wait for her to stop laughing hysterically, and am instructed that if it continues to bleed, to seek immediate attention.
Still bleeding, so I make the executive decision to go to the emergency room. I lived by myself then and I just had this vision of me bleeding to death in my bed from this nick (how would that look in my obituary?). I drive myself to the ER, park the car, and sign in. It’s a quiet night (a Tuesday, I think) and so luckily, I was able to get back there pretty quickly. Of course, by then, it has stopped bleeding and the doctor on call (who couldn’t have been more than 2 years older than me), gave me that bemused look of “Wow, will I ever have a story to tell the other residents tomorrow!”. She then drew – yes, drew – me a diagram of where exactly I had nicked my gentle lady parts. I kept it for a while, but I don’t know if I still have it or not.
So, I was told that it was not fatal, it was no longer bleeding and I could take my sorry self home. At that point, my pride hurt a helluva lot more than my labia.
I took my exam the next day – got a dismal grade – and briefly flirted with the idea of putting in a request to retake it given the fact that I was in the ER the night before. But, the notion of explaining to my male professor what had happened put that one out of contention pretty quickly. I accepted my grade as (yet another) badge of honor and moved on.
And, yes, the Mr. and I had a lovely date. The rest, as they say, is history.