Chapter 11
When I woke up today, I was on a mission.
I had my second appointment with Kay two days ago, and even though it’s only been a week and a half since my first appointment, Kay decided it was time for me to start using dilators at home to ensure I’m progressing in between our weekly appointments.
I promised myself I would not procrastinate (because I’m Doing So Much Better!), and so when my alarm went off, I immediately rolled out of bed, splashed some water on my face, and triple-checked the door was locked and the blinds were closed.
Taking a deep breath, I then opened my top right dresser drawer, sifted through socks to find a small wooden box, opened said box, removed a package wrapped in cloth, unwrapped the cloth, and finally let my dilators see the light of day for the first time in…
eight years? Nine years? Give or take. And then I washed them very, very thoroughly.
It’s been five minutes since then, and I’m still staring at the dilators like if I don’t move, they can’t see me, and I can’t see them, and I won’t have to use them, maybe.
Long time no see, says Cobalt. I throw her back in the box, then throw Key Lime in just to be safe. I allow Lavender to stay, since she’s the smallest and tends to stay silent.
The dilators range from the size of my pinky to what Google tells me is the size of an average male penis. Measuring my physical therapy tools by how they compare in size to male genitalia chips away at my feminist ethos, but we have to pick our battles.
I wish penises were smaller.
Cobalt speaks up from the box. What size penis does H—
I slam the box shut.
And now, here I am. Eight-thirty a.m. I have an hour before I leave for work, and I swore to myself I would accomplish this task first. I know in my heart and soul that now is the appropriate time to put on (take off?) my big girl pants and use the dilators, but it still takes every ounce of willpower to bring Lavender to the bed and lie down on my back.
Inhale. My stomach expands.
Exhale. My stomach deflates.
My left hand rests loosely at my side as my right hand presses against my abdomen, feeling it rise and fall with my breath.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I hate this—the dilators, the breathing exercises, the entire concept of pelvic floor therapy—but this is a crucial step in my Doing Better Plan. I already got a job, I bought a real bed frame, and I even found a new therapist, so I need to keep up the momentum.
I grab the bottle of lube I bought at the pharmacy last night.
The process of picking out lube made me feel strong and powerful and sexy ( yeah, that’s right, I’m having hot sex).
(What the hell are you talking about, Key Lime said.) But then I couldn’t get the self-checkout machine to work, so a pimply college-age kid had to rescan the lube for me and reset the machine.
I will be ordering lube online next time.
So here I am, lying in bed, slathering lube onto my pale purple dilator. I will my muscles to relax and guide Lavender to my entrance. I don’t push inward; I just let it sit there, begging my muscles to get used to the feeling and recognize the dilator isn’t going to hurt me.
Although Kay’s index finger is larger than Lavender, this is somehow scarier.
I can’t just turn off my brain and stare at the ceiling and tell my pain receptors to screw off.
I have to consciously insert the dilator myself, even though every muscle in my body seems to be working in opposition to this goal.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Of course, the goal is to get to a place where I don’t have to mentally remove myself from my vagina to combat pain. Because, no, the thought of having to build an unbreakable mental blockade during sex is not appealing to me. I would like to feel what it’s really like—without the pain, that is.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I push Lavender inward slightly. My muscles clench, but I focus my energy on relaxing my pelvic floor and stopping the muscle spasms. And, much to my delight…it’s super uncomfortable. But not painful, per se. There’s no blinding pain, no spots in my vision. No screaming, yelping, crying.
Anticipating pain, I’m learning, gives you power over it. Is Lavender essentially the size of a toothpick? Sure. But she’s inside of me and I am okay.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I lie there for a few more minutes, then gently press to the side. My muscles rapidly tighten and my breathing hitches, but I hold steady, willing my body to unclench, waiting for my muscles to adjust—
And my phone alarm goes off. I pull Lavender out, which feels as pleasant as ripping an extra-strength Band-Aid off an open wound. Time to get ready for work.
Two hours into my shift, Rose continues to monologue with the same energy and enthusiasm as when I first walked in and she began telling me about how the online course registration system got overloaded and she missed her opportunity (sorry, her “once-in-a-lifetime chance”) to take a course called “Burn Her! Exploring the Legacies of Witchcraft in Renaissance Literature on the Second and Third Wave Feminist Movements.” We’re having a slow afternoon—save for Kurt, who came in after lunchtime and is sitting in an armchair, completely engrossed in Slaughterhouse-Five—so she’s taken it upon herself to fill the silence.
“And on top of all that, my roommate just texted me and said she’s having five friends over for dinner.
Five! In our tiny apartment! God, roommates are the worst.”
Now that’s something I can talk about. “True. I had to move out of the house I was living in because all of my roommates moved out and got married.”
She responds without missing a beat. “That’s because you’re old.”
“I’m only, like, eight years older than you.”
“In eight years, I intend to be a multi-millionaire and have at least one kid and one ex-husband.”
Rose offers no additional explanation for how she plans to turn that dream into a reality.
“Well,” I say, then stop talking because I don’t know how to finish that sentence.
“That’s why I have to live it up while I’m still young and free of responsibilities.” I choose not to point out that this job is a responsibility.
“And that is also why,” she says, spinning on her heel and pointing at me as if she’s just discovered the answer to all of my problems, “you have to come to my party this weekend.”
“I don’t think I’m going to do that.”
“It would be good for you,” she says, which I try (and fail) not to find personally offensive. “It’s still in your calendar, right?”
It’s not—I deleted it almost immediately after she put it in the first time—and she can clearly read my answer on my face. She holds out her hand, and I reluctantly hand my phone to her.
A moment later, she looks up with wide eyes. “Who is Alexander?”
I blink. “What?”
“Why do you have a text from someone named Alexander asking you on a date?”
“Give me that,” I say, and she scowls as I snatch it back.
Maybe: Alexander: Hey! This is Alexander. From the double date. I know it’s been a couple weeks but I can’t stop thinking about you. Would you like to get dinner again sometime? I’d love to get to know you outside a painfully awkward double date context if you’re down.
Rose’s breath tickles the hair on the nape of my neck.
“Oh my god, back up,” I tell her, and she hmphs and takes a step back.
“Who is Alexander?” she repeats.
“A guy,” I say. I can feel her eyes roll. “I went on a double date with him two weeks ago.”
Rose’s eyes are bugging out of their sockets, as if this is the most exciting information she’s ever heard. “Well? Are you going to go on a second date?”
“I don’t think I would call what happened a first date, really.”
“Why?” she asks. I ignore her, and she scowls at me before responding. “Fine. Are you going to go on a first date with him?”
Going on a non–double date is on my Do Better list. And I want to finish the list because…there are things I want to do. Or have the opportunity to do. Even still, saying yes to a date feels like a minor betrayal.
Of my neighbor or of my heart, I’m not sure. Maybe both.
“I don’t know if I’m looking to date right now,” I say, even though I know what her response will be.
“You’re such an old lady,” she says, as expected. I wince. “It’s just one date. Live a little.”
Am I interested in going on a date with a hot man who is interested in me? I’m not not interested. One date can’t hurt, and one date is only…one date. This is what real adult women do, right?
That’s what Harrison is doing on the dating apps, apparently. He says he shouldn’t be looking for something serious, which means he’s looking for something casual, which probably means he’s trying to find someone to be casual with. Whatever that entails.
You know exactly what that entails, Key Lime says.
You’ll never be casual, Cobalt adds. But you already knew he wasn’t interested in you. Friends with limitations, remember?
“Go out to dinner,” Rose says. “Do it. Text him. Right now.”
“Right now? Isn’t that a little fast?”
“This is the twenty-first century. We don’t have to pretend we’re not always on our phones.”
“I don’t know…”
Rose gives me another you’re crazy look. “I can’t be the only one with fun stories at work. You need to get on my level.”
“I have fun stories.”
“Oh, yeah? Tell me one. Right now.”
I stare at her blankly, then rub my temples. Inhale. Exhale. “Yeah, okay, I’ll go to dinner with him.”
Rose gives a squeal of excitement. Before I know what’s happening, she’s grabbed my phone again and started typing.
“Hey,” she reads aloud. “Sounds like fun. I’m free on Saturday.”
“I’m also free Friday,” I offer, and Rose scoffs at me.
“Nice try. You’ll be at my party.” There’s a bloop as she hits send. “Proud of you,” she says, and I’m almost proud of myself, too, but then I remember Rose did 100 percent of the work, and I’m still not sure why I agreed to this.
“You should invite him to my party,” she adds, handing me my phone.
“Hey, look,” I say, glancing at my phone. “Your shift is almost over. Guess it’s time for you to pack up.”