Love in the Time of... Yeastie Beasties

DISCLAIMER: I wrote this months ago. I'm fully cured now. I've been saving it until I thought maybe I wouldn't be embarassed to post it. I still am. But I'm also suffering from Writers' Block.

Hello.

My name is Katie.

I am 22 years old.

And I have a yeast infection.

This wasn’t always a problem, you know, I didn’t always have this issue. In fact, this is my very first yeast infection. I developed it this past Sunday and, well, it’s Wednesday now. I got medicine for it tonight, so I think I’m heading in the right direction.

But, you know, aside from the discomfort it has caused me, I know I’ve already hurt other people. By having it? Yeah. I have. And I feel badly. But I also feel pretty damn amused. You know the old saying “you always want what you can’t have”? It’s true. Especially when that “you” refers to 90% of the men I saw walking home from McGillin’s Irish Pub tonight.

I had gone to McGillin’s for karaoke. On my way home, I dropped Pam off at her apartment. I currently have a jacket and phone book living there, and I had planned to go retrieve them. But when I debated between hauling ass to CVS and taking two six-floor rides on her terrifying elevator, “Onward Monostat, ho!” was the only thought on my mind.

There are seven blocks between Pam’s building and my CVS. As I barreled through those seven blocks (as fast as the new heels I stupidly wore to break in would allow), fourteen guys tried to pick me up. Yes, I counted. It was an effective way to distract myself from my discomfort:

“Hey beautiful, where are you going so f—?”

“Slow down, I can’t keep up wi—”

“I see you running down the street, just like you’ve been running through my m—”

“The man you’re running to better be worth it, because I’d never make you work that h—”

You get the picture. After guy number ten yelled “WHY ARE YOU RUNNING? CAN’T YOU JUST TALK TO ME FOR A MINUTE?!” I strongly considered responding “IF THERE WAS A YEAST-LIKE FUNGUS ATTACKING YOUR MANDANGLER, YOU’D BE RUNNING TOO!”

But that would have taken up time and my eyes were on the prize.

When I reached CVS, my manjuice [manjuice: noun, comparable to mojo, that which enables a woman to be entirely irresistible for no apparent reason at all. Ex: “Even though Katie was running like a mad woman to cure her itching nether regions, her manjuice was in such full effect that every man in Center City was hot on her trail”] was still flowing. One of the employees attempted to detain me at the entrance. Another caught me during my stealthy maneuvering from Hair Care back to Women’s Care (you know, in case anyone figured out where I was going and decided to embarrass me about it—since posting on the internet about having a yeast infection won’t accomplish that many times over). I honestly watched two other male cashiers fight over opening a register because both wanted to ring my sale. They didn’t get it open in time, so a woman who was working processed my purchase. I was both grateful (because there are certain things I’m more comfortable buying from a woman, and yeast killers are now high on that list) and disappointed, because I do think it would have been FABULOUS to see the look on the face of whichever man succeeded in ringing my sale when I smiled, said “hello, how are you?” and handed him a box of CVS-brand Miconazole 3.

Current Count of Men Hurt By My Yeast Infection: 18

Blocks Between CVS And My Apartment: 3

On Block One, a door man tried to catch my attention before I crossed his path:

“WOW,” he exclaimed, “I thought this building was the most beautiful thing in Center City. I was wrong!’
“THANKSHAVEANICENIGHT,” I shouted, while barreling past.

“We have a great lobby if you want to c—”

But I had already crossed onto Block Two, where I found myself stuck in the middle of a herd of men in suits. I counted six who smiled and said hello, then loudly demanded to know why I was being such a bitch as I swiftly kept it moving.

(Note to Men: Calling a girl a bitch while she is running in heels is NOT going to get you anywhere. If it’s late at night and she’s running in painful shoes, I guarantee there’s a good reason. Your only hope is her falling and you being the first to reach her side and offer to call an ambulance. Otherwise, cut your losses, or post a Missed Connection and see if she responds. Remember: if you love someone, set them free. If they come back, it’s meant to be... and if they don’t, try not to be too hurt, as they were probably running too fast to even notice you.

Block Three meant fifteen feet to home. Unfortunately, I live on top of a popular bar. When I signed my lease, my friends and I wondered if I’d meet lots of guys just by walking to my door. Until tonight, that hadn’t happened.

Tonight, as I fought through a throng of resilient smokers (thank you, smoking ban, for letting me breathe in bars. Thank you, landlord, for installing a good door that doesn’t let the stank air of smokers into my building), three different guys asked if they could “come up, you know, to see if it’s as loud in the apartment as it is in the bar.”

Last I checked, I didn’t let drunk crazies watch Eagles games in my apartment, or rock out to Fall Out Boy 24/7. I decided that slamming a door as I ran for safety communicated “NO,” a lot faster than stopping to explain acoustics would.

Final Tally of the Men My Yeast Infection Has Hurt: 28

That’s right, TWENTY EIGHT MEN IN ONE NIGHT. In less than a half hour. Now, I thought I looked cute tonight, but NO amount of cuteness can account for this. They must have sensed how unattainable I was, and let their manly fight instincts counter my flight response. Whatever the reason, I have come to accept my future as a cat-owning crazy lady. I love men, but if yeast infections are what it takes to find them, I’m sticking my baby, Latoya.

Photo from the author's personal collection.