You always do a real good job of brushing your teeth right before you go to the dentist, and you make a similar effort right before you go to see your gynecologist, if you’re polite. I was in the shower doing the best I could, but it never really seems like enough. I’m presentable, but not exactly minty-fresh. All of which got me thinking about vaginas with teeth. Brushable, presumably.

It’s a thing. There have always been rumors about toothed vaginas, but for the most part they’re a myth, a natural outgrowth (as it were) of male castration fears. There’s something deeply frightening to men about the possibility of being personally abbreviated when you least expect it. I can only compare it to my fear of Congress cutting off my pension. It’s not a very sensible fear. After all, men frequently entrust their most treasured parts to an area that actually has teeth, and they don’t seem to take much persuading, either.

Still, it is possible to find teeth in a vagina. Evidently there are special cells that can turn into any old thing they have a mind to–teeth, or hair, or little personalities–and sometimes they begin rummaging around the body looking for a likely spot to land. Mostly they show up in the ovaries, which are safely tucked inside, ideally, but those Fallopian tubes are right nearby waving their little fingers. And if they have enough room to rear back, I imagine they can sling those suckers like so many numchucks. And

Fallopian tube rearing back.

that’s how you get your vagina teeth.

My gynecologist is a very nice woman and she did not find any undue dentition to report. There’s always something, though. For the last few years, she’s kept me apprised of various interesting changes, beginning with “pale, thinning tissues,” which evidently are to be expected at my age. In fact, a number of things are to be expected at my age, and they all fall under the umbrella of some nice acronym which (kindly) replaces the old term “vaginal atrophy” or “senile vaginitis.” I am grateful for the acronym, although I can’t remember it. Whatever it is, it means “old lady bits.”

She’s real chirpy about these developments. The latest was a “caruncle.” Previously I had only associated this word with the bumps and wattles and snoods and whatnot hanging off a turkey’s head that makes it attractive to other turkeys. And, in fact, that is what it looks like.  She let me check it out in the mirror. It’s just one more reason it’s a good idea to wear pants in a turkey pen.

All of this stuff has something to do with my having evicted all my estrogen a few years back, and she says if any of it bothers me, it can be treated by adding estrogen, but I distinctly recall that estrogen was directly responsible for a lot of shenanigans its own self–ridiculous stuff! Outlandish! You wouldn’t believe it if I told you!–stuff that I’m not anxious to revisit, so I’ll stay the course.

At any rate my doctor is not concerned. Apparently I am deteriorating right on schedule, and should be good to go. At any time.