It's not you, it's me.

No, I'm not trying to let a guy off easy. Well, not in the sense that most people probably think of when they hear those words. Contrary to popular belief, this infamous saying has transcended the ages and can now be used in  a variety of situations.

I recently renewed my membership at LA Fitness. I argued with myself that the fitness center where I live was sufficient enough, but it didn't have a sauna or a steam room. Not to mention the greater possibility of spotting some delicious eye candy.

My membership came with a free fitness assessment and personal training session so I signed myself up to do it bright and early on a Saturday morning. I was met by a fit, handsome young man about the same age as me. He asked me questions about my lifestyle, what I ate, what I drank and how much I knew about fitness. He seemed to like my answers so far.

Then came the fever of the pitch: how much and how long could they lock me in for with a personal trainer. I gave his proposal some considerate thought, but wasn't quite buying into the deal (literally). So he sweetened it up a little more for me by lowering the price and initial fees. I would have to commit to a minimum of 3 sessions a month for 3 months. I still said, "Ehh" on getting locked in for 3 months. He then pitched it from a different angle. At this time I looked at him and said, "Listen...I'm not sure how to say this but...I don't do well with commitment." He leaned back a bit and didn't say anything so I shrugged and said, "It's not you it's me."

He stared at me briefly before saying, "I can only do this for you today," to which I replied, "Then I just might have to walk away from it today, but if it works out further down the road and the circumstances are right we will definitely talk again." And with that we said our thank yous and shook hands. As I walked away I couldn't help but feel that I had broken up with something that hadn't even started.

That's not possible, I have a vagina.

The thought occurred to me yesterday evening as I was getting ready for dinner. My dinner date had teasingly asked me how much longer it would take me to get ready.

"5 minutes," I said, which I had already promised 3 times. A somewhat impatient voice replied, "Can you get ready any faster?" to which I promptly retorted, "That's not possible, I have a vagina."

Suddenly a lightbulb switched on and my blog was reborn!

I had been toying with the idea of changing my blog's identity. I yearned for it to have a personality complete with moods and a voice. This all started with a name. After all, isn't that how we begin first impressions? What better way to catch someone's attention than to use the word "vagina"! Seeing how my ramblings so far have been influenced by my female emotions it seems only fitting that the title of my blog have something to do with the part of my body that rules them. I also came to the conclusion that my blog needs more pictures. Don't worry, I won't post of a picture of my precious flower. There are plenty of other free websites for that.

The next step will be discovering the next step. I'm sure that as this blog develops, so will I.

I think I'm a walking oxymoron. Let me explain.

My dear mother raised me as a single parent after she and my father parted ways when I was 13. In reality, she was a "single parent" way before that. In all her infinite wisdom and knowledge, she taught me to be independent and cautious of a man's intentions, burning into me the hard lesson that she learned from being with my dad. I really can't blame her for that.

Fast forward 11 years. After a handful of failed long-term relationships, I had finally met someone with very strong potential to be a life partner. All the other boys I'd met (and I do mean boys) struggled with my independent nature. One of them even tried to take me back 100 years to the pre-women's rights era and make me more submissive. I'm sad to say it almost worked. What do they call that type of behavior again? Oh yes, stupid.

So there I was on the brink of tying the knot with a nagging question on my mind. I turned to the one person who I thought could give me an answer: my mother. "Mom," I asked, not even sure how to phrase the question. "How am I supposed to let a man take care of me?"

There was a short pause on her end of the phone before she said, "Well, you have to make your husband feel like a man and you do that by letting him take care of you."

"But you raised me to be independent," I replied, "so I'm not sure I know how to do that."

"It's different when you are married," she explained. "You have to listen to your husband."

I wasn't sure that I was liking her answer at this point, so I said, "You know that goes against everything you taught me growing up."

My mother simply said back, "I know." Go figure my love life feels like a game of Jenga sometimes.