I like being a woman. I like my femininity and all my lady parts—my bum, my boobs, my hips, and my… well, you know.
I’m proud my body is a vessel—that it has the software and vigor to incubate and birth beautiful brown babies. I have no gripes about consigning myself to the menses cycle every 28 days. (Except when I want to be intimate. Then it’s a drag.)
I’m a closet diva. I get excited by things like big hair, six-inch heels, form-fitting dresses, lipstick, Brazilian waxes and almost any product marketed to women.
And I will try anything once.
Diva Cup piqued my interest.
So, I tried the Diva Cup. And it sucks.
Some will tell you it’s the best invention since apple pie. Don’t believe them. Buy more apple pie.
Menstrual cups are the latest technology designed for feminine protection during that time of the month. They are reusable and can be worn for up to 12 hours.
The Diva Cup is made of silicone, which contributes to its rubbery texture and flexibility. It must be folded like a diaphragm before it is inserted into the vagina. It resembles a scoop—one you might find in a container of Lipton iced tea mix—except there is no handle and the edges are soft and rounded. Also, there is a flexi-stem at the base of the cup, for easy removal. Trust me: it is useless.
I’m all for innovation, but not at the cost of awkwardness, discomfort or the search and recovery involved with using this product. I promise you, there is nothing sexy or fluent about using Diva Cup. It is cumbersome. Here’s why:
- I had to hunt high and low for the Diva Cup. It wasn’t available at the local supermarket. It wasn’t sold at Walmart. I had to travel to an out-of-the way CVS pharmacy, just to purchase it.
- It ain’t cheap. A sole cup costs a whopping $29.99. The price of one cup and the Diva wash cleaning solution is $38.99. The price of two Diva Cups is $40. Its reusability begets the cost. But, it is not exactly the product I’d want to do a three or four or more-peat with—it’s not a toothbrush. It feels like the kind of thing that should be immediately trashed after one use—like sanitary napkins, tampons, Pampers and potted meat.
- You have to be a contortionist to get Diva Cup in.
I bent, I kneeled. I squatted. I did Bharadvaja’s twist. I did downward dog. I did crane pose. It took nine tries and 40 minutes before I achieved a semi-fit. Yoga will not help.
- It felt like I was smuggling a catcher’s mitt. Expert users will argue that the Diva Cup wasn’t in right—but wrong. There was a foreign object inside my body and I felt all of it with every shift, twist, and turn. It is tantamount to the distraction of a splinter beneath the skin or a nagging booger lodged in the nasal cavity. When I walked, I felt like baseballs were being juggled on my pelvic floor. When I sat, it felt like I was sitting on a toy truck. When I sneezed, I felt as if I might expel my entire cervix.
- Let’s be clear: My $30 purchase was not for the sole sake of finding a better alternative to pads or tampons. That time of the month is an interruption of all things intimate. I thought the cup was goals—but no. Its clumsiness is the ultimate Debbie downer. And while other brands, like Soft Cups, give a green light to using the cup during sex, Diva Cup does not.
- The Diva Cup will assume squatters’ rights. The scavenge is real. The eviction is realer. If you were one those kids who liked to fish through a box of cereal to find the toy, then perhaps you won’t mind. I, however, take exception to having to frisk my private parts for anything that doesn’t belong. I poked. I prodded. I pushed.
It took twenty-five hellish minutes to dispossess the Diva Cup.
Once removed, I stood in the bathroom (aka the crime scene) holding the weapon. Speckles of evidence were on the floor, the toilet, the sink. My legs were shaky. My pelvic region was sore. I felt violated. And my own hands were nothing less than guilty.
There will be no do-over. I’m quite done.
Bottom line: Diva Cup? I can’t even.