by Jen Retter
I recently purchased a set of jade eggs at your wellness summit, "In Goop Health." After years of trying to harness the power of my feminine energy, I was eager to hear vagician Shiva Rose’s views on inserting foreign objects in the name of detox. I must say, "Better Sex: Jade Eggs for Your Yoni" was a welcomed departure from her last suggestion (pineapple rinds imported from Isla Nublar, $165. Thorns and UTI aside, I'm fairly certain Isla Nublar is from Jurassic Park).
Thing is, I'm not sure what I did wrong. As you suggested, I worshiped the egg. I took it out for a candlelight dinner, bought it three shots of Jose Cuervo, complimented its shape, and didn't mention my cats, my ex, or my biological clock (only time for one egg, right?). I angled my bed so the moon illuminated its silk sheets in a way that was pleasing to the egg. I burnt incense. I released my inhibitions. I visualized light flowing from my yoni, which was difficult to do because I lit too much sage and it was smoky and I swear the egg whispered "Jess."
There were a few hiccups, but I was open-minded. Though the egg was smaller than expected, we experienced a bit of trouble getting in (and staying in). I assured the egg that this was ok, we'd been drinking, it was normal.
You also mentioned it may be difficult to try while standing, but we didn't even get close to that. To be honest, the egg wasn't that great in horizontal positions. I made all the effort. Despite my ego-pumping, the egg just laid in silence. I felt like it was rolling toward the TV.
Still, I thought we had a fine night. But when I woke the next morning, the jade egg was gone. No note, no explanation— just its velvet bag left on the altar I built for it, per your recommendation. My roommate, who saw a cab peel out of our parking lot, thinks it ate the last of our cruelty- and spiritually free chia seeds (infused with Miranda Kerr’s hot yoga secretion, $628, Goop). When I reached out for an explanation, I received "sry phone broke who’s this" in reply.
Though the egg itself was a reasonable $65, the whole production cost me upward of $500. I don't need it to crack all over me, but for that money, I'd like some measurable outcome indicative of success. Could Goop do a followup piece for those of us who want the experience to be good for the egg, too?
PS: The original post suggested cleansing the egg before use, but I was too shy to ask. I didn't want to insult it, as the moon was in its Waning Gibbous phase and the egg was particularly sensitive. I assumed it was disease-free.
Shiva Rose made no mention of backup protection. Could she please touch on what to do if our egg was sleazier than anticipated?
Jen Retter is a cat lady from Philadelphia. She’s good at writing bios.