I Smoke Pot Because My Vagina Has Anxiety

My vagina was prescribed Xanax for anxiety. Apparently, that crazy bitch is tightly wound and needs to CTFD. She will also be receiving massage therapy to help alleviate the stress — drugs and massage, that’s one lucky cunt!

You’re probably asking yourself, “How does one’s vagina become anxious?” It took years to get this way, but the gist of the diagnosis is that general anxiety can manifest its way to your love canal — who knew? Some people get stressed-out and clench their teeth. I get stressed out and clench my vagina. Don’t judge. It’s not fun.

Maybe it’s perimenopause, maybe it’s the new regime trying to control my uterus, or maybe I’m just crazy. Whatever the reason, I need to get this under control because who wants to walk around with an anxious vagina? I have a million other things I could be worrying about!

Like, what would I do if my car rolled off a cliff and fell into the ocean, and I didn’t have one of those thingamabobbers in the glove compartment that breaks the windshield? How would I escape? Or what if the furnace blows up in the middle of the night? What are the odds of surviving? I should probably have an escape plan. Jumping off the bedroom balcony might work, but that’s a long way down. It would involve breaking bones (most likely ankles), and how would I run away from the flames carrying a kid and a dog with broken ankles?

When I’m not pretending to be in an I Survived episode, I worry about normal stuff. You know, like contracting flesh-eating brain disease from using a Neti Pot. Or obsessively WebMDing dry eye and itchy nipple. Anyhow, let’s get back to my vagina. Massage and Xanax are supposed to do the trick, but to be honest with you, I don’t like the idea of popping pills to mask a problem. I want to get to the root of this and work through my issues non-synthetically. I want my vagina to have a relaxed go-with-the-flow attitude.

But it’s hard to relax. I’ve tried yoga and meditation and wouldn’t you know it, I’m that less-than-1% person who experiences relaxation-induced anxiety. I adopted a dog to help calm my nerves, but it did the opposite. Do you know that awful sound a dog makes when it licks its asshole — my dog really likes to lick her asshole. The licking combined with the clicking of the dog nails as she follows me around from room to room really makes my vagina tense.

This leaves me with only one option — to go the organic route. I’m lucky enough to live in a liberal state with a recreational pot shop down the road. I mean it’s totally normal for a midlife housewife to go buy marijuana gummy candies while her kid is at school, right?

Driving to a new and unknown destination gives me anxiety, so I did what any normal person would do: I put the address in Google Maps and assessed the location and parking situation by satellite. I got in my car and drove by the dispensary (14 times) before I worked up the nerve to park. I didn’t want anybody to see me, so I waited until the other costumers cleared out before I went inside. The dudes were super chill; they didn’t flinch when I nervously asked them, “Do you have anything lightweight, non-trip-your-face-off to help relax my pelvic floor muscles?”

I walked out with two bags of salted caramels and high hopes of conquering my anxiety. I ate the candy before bed and started freaking out. My lips felt tingly. My throat felt like it was closing. One eye looked bigger than the other in the bathroom mirror. Oh, just fucking great! Am I allergic to marijuana?

I stayed up all night watching Bob Ross on Netflix, waiting for the effects to wear off. Happy little trees and clouds were stressing me out, so I fired up YouTube and watched some ASMR videos. I just adore those tiny food videos. The ones where they make minuscule burgers the size of your pinky fingernail and cook them in a mini-skillet and flip them with a mini-spatula with fabulous sizzling sounds in the background. Ahhh, serenity.

Maybe the marijuana is working? I’m starting to feel relaxed. My stomach starts grumbling. I’m starving. I want tiny little cheeseburgers. I need tiny little cheeseburgers. Where the hell am I going to find tiny burgers in the middle of the night? The tension starts building. I’m starting to panic. It’s useless — nothing is going to save me and my anxious vagina.

This post previously appeared on BLUNTmoms.