Anonymous 3m 722
The views of this article are the perspective of the author and may not be reflective of Confessions of the Professions.
When I met Aunt Flow 20 years ago, she showed up unannounced, unexpected and unwelcome on Christmas Eve. Mom, in her infinite wisdom, had bought a box of Kotex a year before in anticipation of her daughters becoming women. But my sister and I had dumped blue mouthwash on all of them to see if they’d work like they did in the commercials. (They didn’t.) Mom also decided that at 10 o’clock at night this would be just the BEST time to get in some father/daughter bonding. So off Dad and I trekked to Walgreens, making every effort not to look at each other or speak. When we arrived, one of his coworkers was there getting some last minute gift and OF COURSE he wants to chat. Meanwhile, Dad leans over and whispers “Why don’t you go get your. . .uh..your. . .your lady items.” Thanks, Dad. Then the cashier lady smiles and says, “I think it is just so sweet that you’re here buying this for your daughter. That is just so sweet.” Lady, I am begging you, please, just STFU.
Ever since then, Mother Nature spends one week lovingly crafting a home for a fetus. And every month, she gets righteously pissed to find that I have no need for such accommodations. At first, she starts with the passive aggressive bullshit. I balloon and my pants don’t fit. I retain water like the fucking Hoover dam. It doesn’t matter what I do or don’t do. I avoid salt, even though I’m craving so much salt that I could consume all of the salt in the Utah mines and ask for more. Then, she decides we’re going to revisit puberty and my face breaks out. Oh yeah, that’s fun. And then, AND THEN. . .the fun REALLY BEGINS.
Own Your Copy Today!
To the men out there who may be reading this thinking I’m being overdramatic. . .Let me describe cramps in a way you can understand. Remember the hand of Sauron? Okay, now just imagine that being wrapped around your balls, making a fist. Then Sauron will release his evil grip, only to return when you least expect it. It feels like a fucking pterodactyl is up in that bitch, flailing and chomping like he’s having a seizure. Then he goes to sleep. Then he wakes up. Advil and heating pads? Mother Nature laughs at my pathetic attempts to thwart her wrath. Besides, it’s not like I can call in menstruation. “Hey, I can’t come in today. Why not? That’s a good question. I can’t come in because I’m on my period. Uh huh. Uh huh. Yes. Right. Yes. I understand. See you in 30.” And as an added bonus, I also get headaches and my back hurts like I’ve been sucker punched.
When I tell her my uterus will once again remain vacant, she reenacts the elevator scene from The Shining. I then have the option of shoving a diaper in my Levi’s or a cotton rod up my crotch. Either way, there’s no way I can be discreet about it. When I take one out from my purse it sounds like I’m opening up a bag of chips and shoving it in my pocket. And then I go to the bathroom, everyone knows just what the hell I’m going in there for. There’s no denying it, the reason why I’m not at my desk. You don’t take a bag of Ruffles into the bathroom. I have, on occasion, forgotten to pack enough “lady items”. Let me tell you, MacGyver ain’t got shit on a woman who has no lady items but a roll of toilet paper and scotch tape. Romeo once said “Tempt not a desperate man.” Oh yeah? Tempt not a woman on the second day of her period with nary a Tampax in sight. That, Romeo, is desperation.
I do have the option of hitting the pause button for nine months, but that comes with an 18 year, $250k contract. Like all prudent women, I have reviewed the terms of said contract. For the time being, I am not amenable to the terms and neither I or my partner will sign. Bless her heart, Mother Nature keeps trying. Of course, when I refuse she turns into one angry bitch.
Kinda makes me look forward to menopause.
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