Signing in at the receptionistโ€™s desk of my cool female OB-GYN, I noticed a flyer taped to the glass. โ€œGet your groove back,โ€ it said, and though I like to think I still have my groove, it could always be better, so I kept reading. In smaller letters, near the bottom, the flyer read, โ€œWhat is vaginal rejuvenation?โ€

I smacked my pen down on the counter. Were we doing this now? I knew what vaginal rejuvenation was. A makeover for your south mouth. One of the fastest-growing procedures in plastic surgery. Yet another dubious trend we might find under an umbrella labeled โ€œthe influence of porn.โ€ I slumped in the plastic scoop chair, crossing my arms in the jean jacket I wore to look younger, and thatโ€™s when I noticed the enormous cardboard poster across from me for the same vaginal rejuvenation device. It was the kind of life-size promotional cutout you find in movie theater lobbies, a woman holding hands with a man as she walked on a beach. โ€œItโ€™s about you, itโ€™s about time!โ€ the ad read, and I said out loud, in the empty waiting room, โ€œNo, itโ€™s not.โ€