This post is about *whispers* female stuff. If *whispers* female stuff makes you uncomfortable, congratulations on your penis. It must be nice when your sex organs don’t ruin your life for forty years or so: I suspect that’s why we try so hard to ruin your life when ours are. Wait, I didn’t mean that! Okay, I totally did, and can you bring me some ice cream next time?
Anyway, I think trigger warnings are for pussies (OMG Did you see what I did there?) and I’ve had men scold me for talking about hot flashes, for rejoicing in my hard-won cervical-cancer-free status, so if the mere mention of *whispers* sanitary napkins gives you the heebie jeebies, y’ain’t gonna like this post.
This is not a Nice Lady blog.
The fact that over half of the world’s population is experiencing bleeding genitalia and we’re not supposed to talk about it says a lot about our society. I might could cut you some slack if you’re of a different generation, but here you are on the internet, so clearly you’re adaptable.
My husband has a wife and three daughters, so you should stop cringing and think about how he must feel when for days on end, we all get snippy with him, then cry at the drop of a hat, drop all the hats, cry some more, and fight over the heating pad. The Mister’s only consolation is that he gets to eat red meat and ice cream.
When my insides are coming out you can guess I only give a fuck about my own feelings. I could pretend to care about your feelings if you had brought me ice cream.
The nice thing about reverse puberty is that it only takes 5-15 years.
This is when you realize that the last 31 years of menstrual cycles was, in fact, hardcore training for the day when you would hafta build a dam in your war-torn panties.
I’ve been going with an H formation, but I’m no beaver. (OMG I did it again!)
I still bleed every month. I like most months; it’s like a lil “You’re not pregnant, you’re okay!” postcard from Mother Nature.
But I really only bleeeeeed about every six months now.
Six months of blood in about six days.
The only benefit is that after one of those dreadful bleeeeeeedings, I lose inches dramatically.
So yeah, about every six months the full moon is a blood moon for me. You’d think as a pagan heathen Unitarian I’d feel empowered by this…But I suspect empowerment lies on the other side of this mother-to-crone rite of passage.
You know how you get a cold and you’re like, HOW AM I MAKING ALL THIS SNOT?!?
Yeah, like that, but with blood, which you really kinda need.
The first few days, I’m weak from blood loss. Which sucks, because washing all the clothes I bleed through requires more than pathetic lethargy.
Do you even have two baggies of panties in your purse? Do you wash your hands like a doctor leaving surgery?
I become a walking fucking biohazard of epic proportions.
For a week, I wear black pants and the look of a deer in headlights.
For a week, I go to the bathroom in too frequent a way, which may, to present company, lend curiosity over whether I have a UTI or a drug habit.
I don’t. I’m merely building dams.
I’ve decided to name these periods like the great forces of nature they are:
February 2015 — The Great Flood of 15
July 2015 — Santa Maria
January 2016 — Deadpool
June 2016 — Leviathan
Please feel free to lend your suggestions to the name pool. Rumor has it, this may get worse before it gets better.
But hey, at least I’m not pregnant. Or you know, a man.