By: Kelly Washington
I knew things had gotten out of hand when my vagina got her own Twitter handle. It started innocently enough. Eighteen months ago my newish girlfriend Chloe and I were undecided on where to eat for dinner and she flippantly asked, “What would your vagina do?”
We were sitting on the couch doing what most couples do at 7pm on a Thursday. We were watching Wheel of Fortune arguing whether it was worth it to buy the vowel O. Actually, Chloe was debating the merits, while I was dissecting the latest Kardashian Instagram picture and laughed at how small their private jet was. Daddy’s was bigger.
But something in Chloe’s voice gave me pause and I seriously considered it, What would my vagina do? and my vagina decided she would not buy the O and she wanted cheeseburgers even though I was a pesco-vegetarian. We ended up getting fish tacos instead, and while my vagina wasn’t exactly a weather vane that night, from that point forward our code word, before Chloe and I broke up, was WWMVD?
Attend Tom Cruise’s newest film premiere here in LA or fly to Milan for Fashion Week? WWMVD?
Skiing in the Alps or yachting in Ibiza? Always a tough call, but WWMVD?
Regular highlights or ombre-effect? My vagina had a difficult time deciding that one.
Even tiny decisions could conjure up the WWMVD, such as which butter sauce to order with salmon. Not the end of the world stuff, but still important. By then Chloe, who was a decidedly normal and sane person in every way—AKA not wealthy— found the whole thing to be a pimple on society.
“You’ve taken this way too far, Meredith,” Chloe said as she was breaking up with me. “Just like that time you decided to take up Italian art classes, or glass blowing. This time, it’s your vagina. What about this?” she asked, gently tapping my brain.
Sadly, it was true, but I imagine Chloe didn’t appreciate it when I let my vagina decide when we could have sex, who could drive, and which Netflix show to binge.
It was worse when Deirdre—my mom who was more of a gossipy best friend than a mother— told me that she let her vagina decide everything, to include not divorcing my financier dad. “My vagina is decidedly against poverty,” Deirdre said one day at brunch, dipping celery in her wine. I saw her point.
A month later my sister Leslie joked that I should create a Twitter handle for my vagina before Chloe did because Chloe did not have a trust fund and she worked in retail. “Like, she had to wear sneakers, Meredith,” Leslie said with concern. True, Chloe had to work in order afford rent and food, and surprisingly I didn’t hate her for it, but maybe Leslie was onto something.
My vagina was an important part of me. Why shouldn’t she have a Twitter account?
But, as things go, I was just so busy with bikini fittings and vacations and meeting up with my personal trainer, that it took me another three months to think about creating the account. By then, my vagina had taken up other interests, from jazz to craft beer tasting to dating my yoga instructor, Karen.
That last one was definitely WWMVD approved. Karen was a big fan of letting vaginas breath, so I spent another month with my yogi on a beach in Bali.
Like I said, I was busy, but finally, after my brother Chad got wind of the WWMVD thing at our uncle’s fourth wedding reception, he told me his girlfriend said I should give my vagina a name. While I know his college degree girlfriend was making fun of me, I had to give credit was due because it made me remember the whole Twitter account.
I consulted Deirdre, Leslie, and Karen on a name, and we came up with Bethany, but where the H is silent. That was a given. Bet-Ta-Nee.
By this point, Karen’s vagina wanted to breathe around another vagina, and, honestly, I just wasn’t as limber as I’d sold myself upon our first meeting, so Bethany and I broke up with her.
One night, when the lights were out and it was just me and Bethany, I created the account, typed up 280 characters full of snazzy vagina stuff and within three days Bethany has 101k followers, without even trying, which, really, was normal for me. But, here was the thing, no one knew it was me, and Bethany was an excellent tweeter, so things took off on their own.
After a while, however, I didn’t like how Bethany was more popular than I was. The real me, Meredith, had close to 450k followers, Bethany’s account grew close to 1M and I just couldn’t deal with being second fiddle.
Deirdre said I should change therapists, that’s what she did when things weren’t going her way; Leslie recommended I get a puppy, name him Mr. Peanut Butters, and post puppy photos on my real Twitter account; and Chad just laughed at me before he and his caddie went back out on Daddy’s golf course. I could have told him that he had spinach in his teeth, and I didn’t, but I still felt positively charitable in that moment.
Feeling bad about myself because I could never name a puppy Mr. Peanut Butters because I previously claimed to be allergic to peanut butter, I caved and texted Chloe.
Me: hey. free to chat?
Me: i need advice
Chloe: with what?
Me: bethany is, like
totally taking over my life
Chloe: and Bethany is….?
Me: my vagina. her twitter
acct is more popular
Chloe: of course you named it
Bethany. i’m on shift. what do
Me: i know you’ll give me a
straight answer. should i
delete bethany’s account?
Chloe: there’s only 1
Kelly Washington is a former military intelligence specialist and army veteran who writes everything from dark fiction to dark humor pieces. Her short work has appeared in “best of” volumes, Pulp House Fiction Magazine, Fiction River, Kaleidotrope, and Fahmidan Journal, among others. She lives in Virginia with her family.
You can find Kelly on Twitter and Instagram @kellywashwrites and her website, kellywashington.com