Basic Vagina

Suffering from what would appear to be- nay feel to be- the mother of all yeast infections, I call my sister the doctor for free advice, as I do for any major, minor or imagined medical condition I experience. She tells me that unfortunately the over-the-counter Monistat I bought is going to take a while to work, if at all, as some candida is resistant to Monistat. Well that’s a shame, I say, because the hellfire in my pants is raging right now! 

She starts going into some sciencey exposition and I start tuning her out, distracted as I am by the itchy and scratchy show happening in the old pantaloons. But then something she says catches my attention.

“Blah blah science…Your vagina is too basic… blah blah science… PH is off.”

“Um, excuse me?” I cut in. “Did you just call my vagina basic?”

In science the word “basic” is interchangeable with the word “alkaline,” but basic is also slang for someone or something unoriginal, mainstream, and unexceptional. I can’t bear to think of my precious sex organ as…  basic. 

…Suddenly I’m caught up in a bizarre fantasy of my vagina wearing knockoff Ugg boots and taking selfies while sipping a pumpkin spice latte from Starbucks. Her hair is blown out and balayaged blond. She’s hashtagging #yum #Iloveautumn #cozy. She’s browsing Home Goods for vanilla scented candles and light gray throw pillows that read Live Laugh Love. My vagina is filming herself doing a dance challenge for TikTok… now she’s eating a chicken alfredo Lean Cuisine, pairing it with a glass of Skinnygirl pinot grigio, watching Real Housewives of Salt Lake City. For multiple reasons, I’m horrified by all of this. 

It’s not that I myself have never partaken in such basic-ness. I fucking love Home Goods and trash TV and chicken alfredo. 

BUT NOT MY VAGINA. NOOOOOOOO. MY vagina goes to Jean Mitchell art exhibitions on a Weds afternoon after teaching aikido. MY vagina plays cello in an experimental rock band and makes hilarious stop motion videos about anarcho-communism. MY vagina finds designer labels at thrift stores and wears belted silk shifts, braless, with combat boots and baseball caps and long, femme, fuck-me-red nail extensions. MY vagina drinks green tea steeped in an adorable, tiny japanese teapot she found at the flea market. My vagina volunteers as a reader in a nursing home; but she reads the elderly patients erotic literature and comprehensive feminist treatises because she believes you CAN teach an old dog new tricks. MY vagina pulses with all that is unconventional, complex, and fascinating! She's not a manic pixie dream girl- she's too grounded for that- but neither is she… basic. Once again for the people in the back- MY VAGINA IS NOT BASIC.

And yet, Dr. Guggenheim says it is so. So, what does a girl have to do to prove that her lady part contains multitudes? Multitudes of microflora, yes, that goes without saying, the proof being in the candida pudding my body has whipped up. But now I must prove the complexity, depth, intelligence and humor of my vagina? Do I have to get a prescription for the hard stuff? I’ll do it. I’ll even wash my yoni in Clorox if it’ll bleach out the basic. I’ll make my vagina so not basic, they’ll nickname me Acid-Vag. As I pass by on the streets, people will say, “There goes Acid-Vag Alia. Her vagina is totally not basic, in case that wasn’t clear from the name.

My sister’s voice brings me back to reality. “Babe, definitely don’t wash it in bleach. You don’t want an acidic vagina either dum dum. Just get some fluconazole and get your PH back into balance.

Oh. Had I been riffing all that… out loud to her? Well, it’s not like she doesn’t already know how eccentric I am (eccentric = not basic!) 

Okay, so let me get this straight. I shouldn’t overcompensate for a basic vagina by aspiring to the other extreme in an effort to prove how unique I, and by extension my snatch, really are? Right-o, I think I’ve got it now. 

My lord, what is wrong with me, making such a hoopla over my hoo-ha? Perhaps I do have a slight tendency to lean into extremes sometimes- and I don’t even mean vaginal extremes, as this is actually my first major yeast infection. No, I mean that just like Taylor Swift says… “I’m the problem… it’s me.” 

Is leaning into extremes really so problematic, though, I ask myself? I certainly aspire towards grounded equanimity, but sometimes being overly dramatic is frankly more fun, and you know I’m just a good-time gal at heart. Moderation in all things is nice in theory, but tautologically, by definition, that must include moderation in moderation. Which means that sometimes what ‘moderation in all things’ really calls for is flagrant extremism. 

It’s a genius workaround; a linguistic loophole. This means I can still lean into histrionics when the moment calls for it. I decide I will continue to strive for balance and moderation sometimes and in some things: vaginal ph, road rage, etc. But in other ways I should feel free to be an extreme drama queen, unabashedly exploring the spectacular spectrum of life’s PH… or “potential of hydrogen”... as it were. 

I get a text from my sister several days later. “Did the fluconazole work? How’s your basic vagina doing?” 

I call her back to fill her in on all the latest developments. “Oh, she’s basically fine now. I enrolled her in a life drawing class and she’s letting her hair do its natural curl. I gave her some French philosophy books to read and banned her from taking selfies and posting to Instagram.” 

“Wait, you were posting your vagina to Instagram???” 

“What? NO! I’m still doing the ‘basic vagina’ bit. Keep up, Doctor.”

Clearly she’s multitasking or she would’ve remembered my hilarious vagina routine. Wait, did she actually think I would post my vulva to Instagram? Jesus. I mean I’m not basic but I’m not a loose cannon, either. Loose lips sink ships, people. Keep those labia off social media. 

“Oh, right, the basic vagina bit,” she says distractedly, probably cranking out some medical charts between patients. “Carry on, carry on.” She’s so tolerant.

I continue anthropomorphizing. “She’s just finding her natural balance again, you know? She’s soul searching. She got a little off track is all. All vaginas get off track now and again. It’s just a crazy world of extremes, and it’s really hard to find the sweet spot sometimes.”

“Ha!” she says. “I’m gonna tell that to my patients. “Hey, sorry you're suffering. It’s just really hard to find the sweet spot sometimes.”

“Oh, god yes! Report back to me all the juicy gossip about their partners not being able to find their sweet spots.”

“I can’t.” she says. “Hippocratic oath and whatnot.” 

“Ah yes. Copy that,” I say jauntily. “Okay, well, balanced vagina, over and out.” 

“Roger that.” she says. 

“That’s what he said.” I say.

“Haha, nailed it.” she says.

“That’s also what he said.” I say.

“Oh my god. Are you finished yet?” she says.

“Oh my god, that’s what she said.” I say.

“Ok, I’m hanging up now.” she says.

“Ok then. Bye, Dr. G.”

“Bye-bye, Basic V.” she says. And hangs up. 

Basic V? I don’t think so. I continue with calm dignity, and to no one in particular, “The name is not Basic V. It is ‘Her Majesty Equanimitous PH Vaginous Supremis’.” 

I’m still talking into the phone, although my captive audience is gone. “The Legions of Candida cannot penetrate her walls. For she reigns magnanimously in the Super Sexy and Sovereign Queendom of Fluconazole. She is neither acid nor alkaline. Neither basic nor complicated. She is… basically… perfect.”