Signing in at the receptionist’s desk of my cool female OB-GYN, I noticed a flyer taped to the glass. “Get your groove back,” 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, “What is vaginal rejuvenation?”

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 “the influence of porn.” I slumped in the plastic scoop chair, crossing my arms in the jean jacket I wore to look younger, and that’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. “It’s about you, it’s about time!” the ad read, and I said out loud, in the empty waiting room, “No, it’s not.”