Is there no limit to self-improvement? Is every part of me subject to scrutiny and well, er, repair!

I was thinking this the other day while reading a magazine article about how a woman improved her orgasms (and stop urinary leakage...ew.) through Kegel exercises.

Kegels, in case you don't know, involve repeatedly squeezing and holding the PC (pubococcygeus) muscle. This is the same muscle that stops the flow of urine. Exercising the PC's tighten your vaginal muscles, which in turn should give you stronger and longer orgasms.

I'm in. How could I not be? I'm the never-enough girl. I want explosive, mirror-shattering orgasms. I want vaginal muscles that shut like a steel trap.

Heeding not those little voices in my head begging me to watch TV and have a beer, I marked off the next 30 days on my calendar with a big "K." I know for a fact, because my girlfriend, told me that if you can do something for 30 days, you can do it forever. It becomes a habit.

Next, I wrote out my own regimen: squeeze and hold the PC's for ten seconds. Repeat fifty times. (Does it sound like I have a lot of time on my hands?)

Now, in the article I mentioned earlier, the author goes on about how Kegels can be done anywhere because the movement is so delicate and inconspicuous. No one will ever know. Let me say, this is just not true.

I was at dinner the other night with my much  younger husband. As we sat in the steak house debating our dinner selections - porterhouse, T-bone, or filet mignon - I took the opportunity to catch a few Kegels. I gazed off into space, focused internally on my crotch, and squeezed tightly for ten seconds. As I released my clenched PC's, a little groan of relief slipped out, barely perceptible.

The hubby looked at me suspiciously. "Are you pooping your pants?" He asked. His eyes darted around to make sure no one was looking.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said nonchalantly. "I'm fine. A little thoughtful, maybe. But that's just my nature." I clenched my teeth and started counting to ten again. One, two, three, four...

"I think I'll have the rack of lamb." I blurted at last, sucking in a big breath and then going back in for another countdown. Ten, nine, eight...

"Stop that!" said Hubby. "Whatever you're not doing, just stop it."

"I don't know what you're talking about." I said crossing my legs and squeezing even harder. My fingers tapped out the remaining seconds on the table. "Okay," I announced happily. "I'm done." I spread my napkin on my lap with a flourish. "Now, what are you getting, hmmmm?"

"There are some things even I can't tell you," I said enigmatically. "Trust me. You'll love it."

Hubby knows me well enough to understand that there were some things better left hanging - out there, in the universe for "special" people.

"I'm getting steak," he said raising a hand to get the waiter's attention. "We're in a steak house."

Over the next few days, I experimented with Kegels. I Kegeled while writing, talking on the phone (people wonder why you're breathing so hard), reading in bed (one Kegel per paragraph), at red lights (look out for honkers), standing in lines, brushing my teeth, and even while meditating. And then one day, I just stopped. I was kegeled-out.

I looked at my calendar. I had crossed off just two "K" days! It had felt like forever. How would I ever experience an orgasm to stop the world?

I went back to the original article, the source of my discontent. There I found a detail I had overlooked. It was a mention of a website, www.gyneflex.com, selling "gynecologist designed vaginal muscle exercisers."

I got mine in the mail today. It's pink, squishy and shaped like a pair of thongs. You insert it in your vagina and squeeze. You got a better idea?

I bought a new calendar and wrote in "GF" for the next seven days. I promise to report back. Unless of course I'm too busy having mind-blowing orgasms.