There’s something fishy going on in Western Australia, and I’m not talking about the sharks. Over the last few months, I have seen many ads in newspapers and in the windows of medical clinics for something called the Designer Vagina.
Apparently our vaginas have been bad. Very bad. They have had sex and many of them have birthed babies. Our vaginas work hard and sometimes feel a bit bushed. As our vaginas get older, they want to rest, eat frozen Snickers bars, and watch The Golden Girls.
But ladies, our vaginas are evidently in danger of becoming a bunch of lazy koalas. That is why God invented the Designer Vagina. And by “God,” I mean doctors. And I’m not putting this one on the guys, because let’s face it, we women are perfectly capable of coming up with new ways to torture ourselves.
Unfortunately, the Designer Vagina is not a store that sells Gucci tampons and Prada vibrators. According to one Perth clinic’s website, the Designer Vagina is, “a surgical procedure that involves reducing the labia minora or inner lips to achieve an aesthetically more pleasing shape or appearance.” In other words, a vajayjay nip and tuck.
Obviously there could be functional reasons for getting a labiaplasty, and by all means, vaginas should not hurt and hooray for doctors who can help vaginas feel less ouch-y and more chillax-y. But Designer Vagina ads are not directed at women who have serious cootchie issues. With phrases like “youthful appearance,” “regain your femininity,” and “feel more confident in your appearance,” you and I both know what’s going on down under. One ad promises, “Feel more comfortable in a leotard.” Thank god. I’ve been feeling so uncomfortable in my leotard. I’ve always assumed it’s because I’m wearing a fucking leotard, but now I see that it’s my un-designed vagina.
Apparently the Designer Vagina procedure became popular following the advent of the Brazilian wax. Because, you see, once you remove all of your pubic hair, your vagina might look, um, kind of weird. And clearly, the most logical response is not to simply regrow your hair, but instead undergo major surgery. That’s like spilling a glass of grapefruit juice, and rather than cleaning it up, you paint your table pink.
Have I been living in a warm, wet cave? Is this happening everywhere? Sadly I assume it is. But the in-your-face advertising strikes me as very Australian. Get your snatch stitched mate, don’t be such a pussy. Like driving on the left side of the road or living in a world without burritos, I’ll get used to it. Our first few weeks living in Singapore, I was startled by all of the ads for whitening creams, as well as packs of cigarettes featuring photos of cancerous tongues. But soon, all the weird stuff started to feel normal, and before I knew it, I completely regained my femininity.
