Nothing horrifies me more than being invited to a party with an all-woman guest list. Baby showers, wedding showers, Tupperware parties, bachelorette…… you get the idea. It’s not that I hate women, I hate what they talk about. For me it’s fear. Women have no fear, and frankly, they over share. Men get along just fine in life never discussing their daily hygiene routines or bodily functions and that’s okay with me. Say what you will — maybe I’m repressed — maybe I’m not a feminist. (That term scares me, by the way.) Maybe I am not a team player. Perhaps I’m just immature. I still giggle and get red cheeked when girls talk about “down there” as if discussing their brand of laundry soap. I feel like it’s a serious subject that requires a doctor or at least one paid medical staff professional guiding us through making sure we avoid any pitfalls all the while wearing gloves and a mask for safety.

So imagine, if you will my horror when it was announced that “The Vagina Monologues” was to be acted out, IN PUBLIC at my place of work. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. My worst nightmare — women talking about their vajayjays (we will use this word from now on) for fun in public. Naturally, my friends who performed in this personal nightmare knew of my hang-ups and would clearly understand if I did not attend. Yet, somehow I became a participant.

Because I work right there, I walked past the bright pink painted backdrops and the suggestive papaya paintings every day. Eventually I stopped blushing and even offered suggestions for other possible drawings. At some point the talk at work inevitably culminated with me speaking of vajayjays almost daily. Either I was growing up or cracking up. Finally I knew it was important for me to see this no matter how uncomfortable I would most definitely be.

I volunteered to collect tickets and watched as girl after girl, lady after lady filed into the theater so much so that I started to get that “Tupperware party” panic. I pressed on, no turning back. There were also multiple enlightened men, and those seeking answers, and of course, the men who had no choice. Those men, who, when the play starts, will leave their bodies. (Who knew? I might have joined them.) As the monologues started, I feared the worst, but what I saw was women at their best, speaking about what made them whole. I didn’t blush. I instead felt pride — pride for my friends. These brave, talented and courageous women spent their evening educating me on the joys of embracing, loving, respecting and admiring my vagina. There. I said it without blushing or giggling. I guess in a way this is my “Vagina Monologue.”

Thanks girls, I needed this.