Mandy Coolen

About Mandy Coolen

Mandy likes to talk. Which became a bit of a problem when she left breakfast radio recently. So, she now writes vociferously at and scratches her itch on 'The Struggle' podcast –

The V and me: The art of genital weightlifting

It took one internet video for me to realise the awesome everyday possibilities of vaginal weightlifting. Hi-ya!



The Internet is like an old-fashioned freak show. You swipe a door open and pull back a curtain, only to disappear into a world of beauty mixed with ugliness, smeared with wonder…then nek minnit you’re halfway through a video of a woman lifting weights with her vagina.

It was a month ago. She was casually standing there on my Facebook feed, alongside the Valentines Day posts. Maybe it was the sexual expectations in the air or maybe it was the fact that she was fully clothed with a bunch of bananas hanging between her legs, but I pressed play without thinking.

So let’s run through it. She inserts a smooth, jade egg (my mind automatically starts humming the Monkey Magic theme) with a thin chain that attaches to dumbbells, to whole coconuts, to miscellaneous stuff tied in a red cloth (now she’s Hobo Boho) down to a surfboard(!)

It’s at this point, my mind wanders to the real-life advantages the mega-muff must gain her. She must be indispensable for all those trips from the car to the beach. Think of it: the towels, buckets, chairs and boogie boards…it’s like having another pair of hands!

“I’ve got the bags honey…pass me the esky.” #thisisliving

She may have started a vaginal kung fu movement. Upon entering the dojo, the ladies are left hands free to karate chop and strike. “Ichi, ni, san, shi, can, carry, nunchucks, with, her, flange.” (Finally, something Chuck Norris can’t do.)

But hang on to your hulas, there’s more.

What’s convenient, as a busy mother of three, is that vaginal weightlifting is anytime, anywhere and any-damn-way-you-like-it. Not just for home and the beach; for Saturday night, dressed to kill in a black see-through number with what looks to be an Oscar statue hanging delicately between your knees. “Audrey meets DiCaprio,” they’ll shriek, as you stride confidently with your star-spangled snatch over the Hollywood Walk of Fame to whatever after-party you’ll be jumping the fence to access.

It’s all systems go, my friends. Cancel your gym membership; biceps are for sissies, abs will get you nowhere; get out your bananas and grab a stone egg, for this shit is officially happening.

I can see the infomercials now (“there’s no nudity Janet, so it’s fiiiiine for primetime”) and the articles in the women’s magazines (“your man will thank you for this one simple trick”) – please, God, let the celebrity endorsement be done by Madonna.

Occupational Health and Safety policies are probably being rewritten as we speak, restricting the practice of vaginal weightlifting while at work, but I’m sure it can be a hoot at parent-teacher interviews. “Hello Mr Wallis, excuse me, whoops…sorry…I’ll just move this chair…Oh, yeah, it’s this thing I’m doing – nudge, nudge, wink, wink. So about my son’s English grades…”

The possibilities are endless.

It won’t be long and we’ll see state championships, nationals and a new demonstration sport at the Olympics. (Until, of course, it takes its rightful place as a fully-fledged event.) The competition will be fierce; the Russians vs the US, the Aussies vs the Chinese; all competing in the Pelvic Floor Routine to see who owns the grandest canyon.

To stand tall on the podium and declare “I’ve got a gold-winning vajayjay!”…now that’s a freaking life goal worth aiming for.

I’m so glad I didn’t miss this Facebook post. It could’ve happened easily if I’d been busy eating cheese or vacuuming the dog. But I logged on, I saw, and, my friends, I will conquer. This happy little vagina-mite is off to develop a formidable fanny, one coconut at a time.




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