I have never seen a man on the third floor of 568 Broadway. Women of all ages and sizes pour from the elevator of the ordinary Soho office building after three brisk dings, leaving the less-fair sex to continue their upward journey to law offices and accounting firms. This urban Isle of Lesbos exists for two reasons: Downtown Women’s Ob/Gyn—a slightly granola collective of female Gynecologists and nurse practitioners—and the swanky Bliss Spa, hilariously situated across the hall. A sign outside Bliss apologizes for the location’s “temporary lack of fabulousness.” Yuck. I’ve never been much of a girly-girl. Sneaker-clad and close to my dad, I spend my money on used books and roll my eyes at designer sunglasses and expensive handbags.
One recent Friday, I made a pilgrimage to the insufficiently fabulous third floor for a package of birth control. This New York necessity had been withheld first by my insurance company, then by Duane Reed and finally by Satan’s horsemen themselves, UPS. Apparently, what Brown can’t do for you is deliver to a Mott Street tenement with no doorbells. I called, I complained, I yelled and screamed, I threw around the term “my medication” as though the poor customer service operator might cause my untimely death of adult diabetes or acute kidney failure.
Finally, I did what every single, twenty-something, heterosexual, agnostic Jewess would do. I panicked. I freaked out, feared the worst and decided that I must be pregnant. My boyfriend at the time was chronically calm and unruffled, but I feared the whole pregnancy scare might be more than even he could handle so, I, uncharacteristically, kept it to myself.
Almost. My best friend “G” chatted supportively from her office at a major women’s rights organization. “No babies,” she typed firmly. “Big money,” I replied, “big money, no babies, no babies,” invoking that shining beacon in hard times, Game Show Network reruns of “Press Your Luck.”
Then I headed over to good old girl land at 568. On the elevator, I noticed another woman around my age. She sported a dark pencil skirt, smooth spindly legs, and pointy pumps I decided were Prada, despite my utter ignorance of what a Prada shoe might actually look like compared to one by Chanel or Gucci or, say, Steve Madden. She threw her slick hair behind one shoulder and typed furiously into a Blackberry. I was certain she was headed for Bliss. She was too chic to have a vagina.
When I exited the elevator, my respiratory system was assaulted by jasmine and lavender. The smell was lovely but astringent, so powerful it reached down to singe my lungs and up to clear my sinuses.
In this dim hallway existed the universe’s epicenter for the odd duality of womanhood. We all had arrived to lie on a table, to be prodded and poked, to be slathered with slippery creams, to care for the various trappings of our lady parts. Ginger scrub and a natural loofah or industrial size KY and plastic speculum? It’s up to you! Hot stone massage or pap smear? Shall we wrap you in seaweed or draw your blood for a nice HIV test? What kind of girl are you?
As I looked around, I assigned gravitas to the women turning right—those fearing they were pregnant, those praying they’d be able to conceive, and those cursing old lovers for HPV, herpes or worse. These are big moments, life-changing moments; moments in no way enhanced by unsolicited aromatherapy. I decided that the women turning left were fancy, fun-loving and frivolous. I imagined hordes of sparkling party girls who had stopped in after three-martini lunches to primp and polish their already perfect lives.
Shaking and nauseated (it must be morning sickness!), I entered the door to the right. Here were my people: grungy purple-haired teenagers, lesbian couples planning in vitro, exhausted moms in non-Juicy sweatpants. Sterility filled the air. I gave my name and received a cute purple makeup case stuffed with lotion samples and Estrostep. The nurse smiled. The packet was solid and reassuringly pink, each blister-packed pill present and accounted for. The rock of anxiety in my stomach began to dissipate and I knew I wasn’t pregnant. I’d been tricked by my raging hormones, indignance and an overactive imagination.
Pocket full of prevention, I felt calm and confident, even sexy. I knew I wanted children in the next ten years or so, but at this fancy-free and financially challenged point in my life, not a fraction of me was ready. I inhaled the fragrance as I returned, relieved, to the dark corridor. I’d probably be back soon enough. I just wasn’t sure if it would be for prenatal care—or a facial.
