During my annual gynecological exam my gynecologist let me know that I have a long vagina. He cheerfully made this announcement while inserting the speculum with the same finesse as Buffy the Vampire Slayer when she plants stakes in hearts. “Ah,” I replied. “Thanks.” So, I have a long vagina... I begin to wonder how long. Isn’t it supposed to be either wide or tight? I don’t know why, but the idea of having, at least what seems to be

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Boobs. Tits. Breasts. Jugs. Hooters. Whatever synonym you choose for reference, these fatty bulges made my adolescence an all-inclusive trip to HELL. Boobs receive a lot of attention in our society and sure, they can be tits fun, but only in the best of contexts. I developed early. Too early. When I was eight, I was forced to wear a bra. My mother decided that brutal honesty was the best route for building a healthy body image. Of course, being

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A few years ago, I realized that my body talked to me. Not as simple chitchat, nor prolific or intellectual discourse; rather, it was a very simple way of sending me messages, like Morse code. Actually, my body has been talking to me forever, the problem was I didn’t speak its language. I am grateful for being quite healthy. I can’t complain since almost all of my bruises were earned like gold medals while practicing some kind of sport. It

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Don’t put wasp nests in your vagina! Don’t seal your labia with glue! Don’t put glitter anywhere down there! Astonishingly, all three of these warnings have popped up on my Facebook feed in the past several months. Clearly, we are failing miserably at teaching girls about biology and anatomy down under (and by down under, I don’t mean Australia, although vaginas are pretty much the same no matter what hemisphere they’re in and whether they can identify Vegimite on sight).

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