Warning: Lots of curse words ahead! And this one’s maybe a bit TMI.
Note: Every time you read any form of the word ‘bless’, read it with thick and heavy sarcasm.
Always be prepared.
I know, I know. That’s the Boy Scout motto, but really I think I need it more than some whiny-ass, pre-pubescent kids out camping or walking old ladies across the street. (And no, you little snot-nosed brats. I am not an old lady, so back the fuck off.)
I grew up learning to know and love my body. Well, that was my mom’s intention, at least. “Keep a record of your period, that way you will understand your cycle.” “Our periods are a blessing.” “If it wasn’t for our menstrual (read that with 3 syllables) cycle, we wouldn’t be able to be mothers.” (Yes, my mom actually said stuff like that. ‘Mom-isms’.) I’ve never been able to keep a record of my bank account, much less my fucking period. And the whole design is flawed from the beginning if pain and discomfort are the price we pay for the pain and discomfort of motherhood. My mom also said, “PMS is no excuse for bad manners.” Fuck that.
It’s only been in the last decade that, finally, I have been able to recognize a certain feeling (pain) in my breasts and know that my period will follow by a week. I’ve been able to recognize a certain feeling (again, pain) in an ovary and know I must be ovulating. I could recognize that feeling (of course, fucking pain!) in my uterus and know my period is imminent and get some coverage. I was able to recognize a certain feeling of wanting to rip somebody’s head off their fucking neck and stomp on it for using the word ‘blessed’ or saying something like, ‘Have a great day’, and realize I had about a week before my blessed womanly time of the month would arrive.
And now, at the time I need the most self-control to have a rational relationship with a teenage daughter who is just learning to know and love her blessing of being a woman, I have become a raging, unpredictable bitch– and not just right before my period, but anytime. At the time I need to be even tempered and calm because my teenager is establishing her independence and leaving for six weeks to practice growing up, I cry at the drop of a hat. The other night, Jolie walked in on me watching Roots and bawling, saying, “I’m so, so sorry this was done to you!” to the people on the TV. While a great example of being empathetic and caring, not exactly a shining example of being in control. I don’t think Jolie saw it as a role-model-worthy moment. It will go down in family comedy history, a story to be laughed at for years. Pffft.
My husband lives far away. We only see each other every few weeks or so. And every. Fucking. Time. I am on my period. It could have been only two weeks since we were together, but I am on my period AGAIN! About 3 weeks ago I was having what I had dutifully learned were the telltale signs that I should have had my period. Even cramps! Nope. No period. I thought, “Well, maybe that was it. It’s done. Hmm. Well, ok.” My husband was on his way home after six weeks of not being together—six weeks of not having a period!– and my blessed Aunt Flow decided to meet him at the door with a big smile and a“Fuck you, Sucker.”
I have to have tampons with me at all times. I don’t have any warning it’s coming. I have to wear a panti-liner unless I want– oh, gross. You know, so I won’t go any farther with this. I will spare you the details of how the amount and content of my period have changed. I’ve said enough.
Always be prepared for the wonderful blessing of being a woman and being able to be a mother. Suck it up, Sunshine. Menopause is no excuse for bad manners.