Pyoo

Here we go. I'm going to start writing. I'm a blogger from way back, I even gained a little notoriety, back in the day. I quit when I no longer lived the subject. My readers did not want me to change, but it's a blog for Chrissakes, my life changed as did I.
I wanted to write only to you, the women of Been There Done That, but I realized that was cowardly. I'm almost 61 years old, and I'm done being a coward. I may not have any friends or family left by the time I'm done here, but fuck it. It's time to write.

Pyoo

I had to find a word for it that didn't make me cringe, or think of perverted old men. The official name is  pu·den·dum

pyo͞oˈdendəm/

noun

1. a person's external genitals, especially a woman's.

All specific, correct, definitions of anyones genitalia makes me squeamish. All I can think of is an elderly, red-faced nun, trembling in front of a pack of junior girls during their first sex-ed class. 

   "Ladies, or ay least try to be ladies, sit up in your seats and stop giggling." Her little voice cracked from the strain, pale eyes washed out even more by unshed tears and her thin, wrinkled bottom lip just quivered away. Demons in burgundy sweaters and navy blue knee socks, that's what we were. Oops, I meant them, those fictional high school girls.

  Even worse, are the cute little nicknames given to a body part I neither nicknamed (until now) or considered particularly cute. Fur burger, snatch, fish lips, taco, the death of Adam (are you kidding me?), and so on, ad nauseum.

  These names are what someone else would say about my body part, not a description I would choose. They all have to do with eating, grabbing, trapping or insulting. Fear and anger based I'd say. Why does a body part need a different name anyway? I don't know any nicknames for my elbow. I am sure a nun could say "Elbow" without having an apocalyptic fit. 

I came up with a new one. Pyoo. As in pyo͞oˈdendəm. A little legit, a little nick-namey, something I can run with. 

Which is a good thing, because I need to talk about my pyoo.

Like, what the hell happened to it?

This has never been a part of my anatomy I paid much attention to. By the time I was old enough to consider it's impact, my pyoo was buried under a luxurious thatch of crinkly hair, and for the most part, I could ignore it. 

There were many who were suddenly fascinated with my pyoo. Fashion czars dictated bikinis, cut to highlight the outline of the poor thing, and at the same time a healthy eyeful of buttcrack. Wild eruptions of curly hair escaped every time time I turned, sat, walked, or God forbid, swam in one. 

None of the girls in the magazines had my problem. That damn Twiggy could wear a bandaid and still cover everything that needed covering. I was ashamed of my pyoo. 

Boys, however, were not. For the first time in my life, they were interested. Not in me though. Every action was dedicated to getting that much closer to my pyoo. It was a very confusing time for me.

Not nearly as much as now. For a long time, because of physical changes, I couldn't even see it. Not that I cared. For all intents and purposes, the old pyoo had pretty much retired.

Then one day, I caught a glimpse of it when I got out of the shower. It was fat! My pyoo was so fat it had almost become an entity into itself. How weird is that? Not only that, but my pyoo was bald. Not like a baby's butt, not like a billiard ball, but wispy, with some fringe still hanging in there. 

From the side, my pyoo looks a lot like Abraham Lincoln.

It was fascinating in a paleoanthropologistic kind of way. My body has decided it just doesn't care anymore. It's going to disinigrate any old way it pleases. I think I'm going to adopt the same attitude.  

I'm changing every day, so I might as change any old way I please. God help us all.