WARNING!!!: If you are squeamish, under the age of 14, or find yourself a fragile Republican male politician who doesn’t understand the inner machinations of how a woman’s body works; TURN BACK NOW! It’s just going to be too scary for you. I can’t be held responsible for your therapy.
There comes a time in every girl’s life, when the springtime of Womanhood begins to bud and blossom into a fertile tree, capable of one day bearing fruit if and when she chooses to bear it…
What this sanitized version of femininity (with its butterfly stitch lining and powder fresh scent) doesn’t explain is the murderous rampage that rivals Alexander the Great every fricken month on our lady parts! As the History Channel so eloquently describes to blood-thirsty viewers with the inner aspiration of a Caesar Augustus, I will now chronicle the carnage and battlegrounds that lay siege to our Victoria Secrets.
It has been called a “Women’s Monthly” as if this is some sort of exclusive subscription we signed up for in our teens, and like the Record of the Month club, are doomed to a lifetime membership of K-Tel Hits long after Donna Summer’s “Last Dance” was played. It’s also been called out by the euphemism “Lady Time”, which is akin to calling a category 5 typhoon a summer breeze. For the linear time conscious and grammatically incorrect, it has been called “starting a Period”.
As an extremely late bloomer, I remember begging the “Period Fairy” to come visit me every year until after I got my driver’s license. When she finally arrived, the sign for “Welcome to Your Teenage Years” had faded into the distant memory of our rear-view mirror, while before us loomed the sign, “Next chance to safely wear white trousers: 40 years ahead ”.
Periods are of no shame in a house full of women. Some years ago, my wife and I started announcing our “moon time” by the colorful code: Neil Diamond. (I’m going to apologize profusely to our absolute favorite singer/songwriter of the 70’s now.)
It was the song “Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon” that set my ADD thought pattern on tilt-a-whirl, and it fit like an overnight absorbent pad with wings. I’m so sorry Neil.
Our Conversations usually go like this:
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
“Fucking Neil Diamond’s Roadies are in town and looking to set up for a gig.”
“Shit. Seriously? I thought his Roadies just left my gig, but then the fucker shows up and its like‘Hello Again!’ and time for another costume change.”
“At this rate we will be ‘Forever in Blue Jeans’”
“Damn. Love on the Rocks tonight.”
“Yep. Cue up Netflix.”
“Neil” has only gotten worse as I have hit my 40’s. Lately, my Uterus has become the Devil’s Playground and Aunt Flo is the bully that is kicking sand in my ovaries faces, while pile driving my cervix into submission. There is no reasoning with this bully, and only plying her with lots of wine can sedate her post apocalyptic mood swings. We have hit the place of Amateur hour now, never knowing when or where it will happen, and can go from zero to “murder scene” in the span of an hour. I don’t even recognize my own body anymore.
Here are the Top 5 Battle-Glorious Moments in Menstruation
1. Negotiation Hostage Crisis Mode: You are caught completely unaware. This will usually happen at the most inopportune time, like during a meeting or in the middle of a parent/teacher conference you have no foreseeable escape route from. You find yourself having this conversation with your Uterus. “Who? What the? OH GOD, NOT NOW!!! Please No. I will give you anything you want if you can hold off for another 25 minutes. You want a cookie? I will get you the biggest cookie ever imaginable if you just hold off until I get out of here. You say I don’t have a cookie? Oh, I know a place! I can procure a cookie in a 10 minute drive to Starbucks. Just think very carefully about this choice and hold off!”
2. Packed Tighter Than A Musket: This should be a Girl Scout badge of honor. It’s been 3 days and you have safely considered yourself “out of the woods” and able to venture into polite society like the capable woman you are. Suddenly you find yourself with that unmistakable Deer in the Headlights epiphany during the middle of a movie, when you are equipped with your car keys, wallet, and a chap stick. Running to the bathroom, you barely make it in time to roll up as much toilet tissue into a cylindrical two-ply cone, packing it in like musket wadding. You better hope that it isn’t a comedy, or you may risk blowing your wad with every burst of laughter.
3. Praying to Saint Sir Isaac Newton: The Patron Saint of staving off gravity: You have been riding the cotton pony all afternoon and it’s time for changing out ponies. You casually saunter into the ladies room and after unsaddling; realize YOU HAVE NO BACK UP PONY! Total Amateur! It is at this point, you realize you are in a strange part of town, and walking around 7 blocks with your Girlfriend while you mentally “Will” all the gravitational pull of the Universe to keep your flow in stasis while you pinch waddle your way to the nearest convenience store for a new pony. From now on, every vehicle you own or ever ride in is automatically equipped with no less than 8 ponies and saddles.
4. Murder Scenes & Period Poops: This is when Shit Gets Real. At some point in the menstrual circus of your life, you realize you are not the Ringmaster with all your fancy PHD’s, accolades, and accomplishments. You are humbled to the position of circus monkey who might hurl poo if you get angry enough. This is the most Un-ladylike you will ever feel, besides giving birth, and there is nothing you can do about it.
You go to bed, safely comforted by the notion that you have complete leak-proof boat coverage and awaken to the find yourself dog paddling in the River Styx that resembles fruit preserves. You waddle the wide-legged walk of shame to the bathroom, peeling off underwear, pad, and flannel pj’s. They are dead to you now. Cramps seize your ovaries in a vice grip that make you breathe Lamaze style, while army crawling into the shower, when Mother Nature deals you the second dirty blow; you need to poop.
Nothing says “You’ve Come a Long Way to the top of the food chain” quite like a period poop. You may as well call it a day right now. This kind of day means pitching the red tent, squatting over a bale of hay, and binge watching Arrested Development episodes.
5. The Belligerent Late Party Guest: This Party foul was also not covered in the Vagina Monologues. In all praises of the magnificent Vulva, No One is amused by the Period party guest that has outworn her welcome OR shows up incredibly late. Like the guest that wears out their welcome, you are equally annoyed by the party guest who RSVP’s to your monthly event with a “Definitely Coming” but then is a No Show without any explanation.
If you are a sexually active heterosexual or bisexual lady person, the Late Party Guest act is still more welcome than a “No Show”, which can be an R.S.V.P. for another kind of visitor in 9 months. For the sexually active Lesbian past the childbearing years, the Party Guest is unwelcome altogether.