Period.

Of course.

There are lots of great things about being a woman, I’m sure, but the only one I can think of right now is not having dangly bits between my legs. I mean, yeah, internal plumbing can be problematic from time to time, but not having to find somewhere to hide my junk in my yoga pants is pretty nice. 

However, there are lots of other things about being a woman that just plain suck. The biggest one – dudes, stop reading now if you can’t handle lady talk – is, of course, menstruation. I’m convinced that if men bled out of any orifice of their body on a regular basis, not only would they have found a way to stop it, they would have also found a way to get out of work hassle free for it. 

Look, I know I’m supposed to celebrate my fertility and all that. I remember reading Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret? With the other girls in school and getting super excited about “starting my period.” Hell, I read that book so long ago, that Margaret described a belted pad holder, as it was before the age of stick on pads and god forbid you use a tampon or you might die (according to my mother). 

So, yes, I was a little fluttery the day I started my period in a dressing room with my mother outside. She, a woman who had a full hysterectomy at my birth and who hadn’t had to buy “supplies” for this strange curse in 13 years, was less prepared than I was. Other than telling me not to use a tampon because I would die, she was of little help. She took me to the SuperX, where I tried to figure out what pads to buy and how to buy them discreetly. Almost 40 years later, I still don’t know the answer to either of those questions. 

Not long after i became a woman, I had a dance recital, which involved light pink everything for the costume. I went to the bathroom right before the performance and discovered that my monthly visitor had arrived and I was not prepared. If I had thought buying supplies was tough at the store, little did I know how embarrassing it was going to be to ask for them from other women. 

I now know that there is worldwide tampon karma: all tampons that come around, go around. You give one, you will surely get three in return someday, just not always when you need them. But most women are more than happy to try to help you procure something to keep you from bleeding through your pants or, in my case, leotard. 

I did not know any of this when I approached the only adult in sight, my dance teacher. Her face at first registered alarm, but I soon realized it was for my pre-recital condition and not my question causing her distress. She told me it was going to be OK and handed me the biggest goddamn tampon I have ever seen in my life. 

Memory is a strange thing and in it, that tightly woven tube of cotton did not look like it would fit anywhere in my body. It was a Super Jumbo Plus or some such business, and I sat and stared at it as I sat on the toilet. I didn’t cry, because I wasn’t that kind of girl. Crying wasn’t going to get this done. After allowing myself to to panic for about 30 seconds, I, who had never used a tampon, much less seen one the size of a tree limb, set about the business of figuring out both how this contraption worked and also how I was going to maneuver it inside my body.

I somehow managed to do both, but not without searing the memory of the minutes before in my brain for life. 

Through trial and error and lots of sleepovers, I eventually figured out the mysteries of tampons and pads and also figured out how to obtain them without involving my parents, which was honestly more trouble than it was worth. 

And that was that for 30 years or so. I was lucky enough not to be one of the girls and women who suffered from debilitating cramps. Although I did have a bad back ache once a month and would cry about the weirdest thing about a day before my menses flowed, I had it pretty easy. My period was something I waited for, with both trepidation and then, finally, relief, at the sure knowledge that I was not pregnant. 

When I was 25, I developed an ovarian cyst the size of a “Nerf football” and was told it would need to be removed. As I signed the paperwork saying that they could do a full hysterectomy if they found cancer all up in my baby maker, I was momentarily saddened at the thought of never having children. Then I had a thought that perked me right up. “Will I only have my period every month with only one ovary?” I asked the surgeon. That’s when I learned about the miracle of ovaries. “Nah,” he said, “If you take one out, the other one just automatically does double duty.” Son of a bitch. 

So I continued to menstruate monthly, only now I did so with a scar from my pubis to my belly button that had taken thirty staples to close up. Oh, happy day. 

In my 30s and 40s, I had older friends who were going through “the change”: the strange part of life called menopause that there’s not even a damn Judy Blume book to prepare you for (pick up the slack, Judy!). They spoke of hot flashes, insomnia, night sweats, but all I could think about was not having those elevator doors from The Shining open up between my legs once a month. Dear Lord, when would the Menopause Fairy finally visit me and put me out of my misery?

I once had someone tell me I should read “The Red Tent,” a book about women going to a, you guessed it, red tent in ancient times to escape from men and have their periods. She talked about what a celebration of womanhood it was! Yay, vaginas! I wasn’t feeling it. I’m not saying that’s not better than cooking and cleaning while you’re bleeding from a southern orifice, but I’d prefer to hang out with my female friends without the bleeding and preferably in a climate controlled spa. You know that tent was hot as hell. 

As my 40s drew to a close, I thought so too, would my period. I went a few months without one, just enough time to get my hopes up, before discovering that the price for my month of freedom was a two week long period like the kind you only get when you are young and full of eggs. 

I googled how many eggs I could even have left. The answer: not many. Why then, does my body continue with this wicked game, sometimes now twice a month, just to show me who’s boss?

After almost 4 decades of menstruation, I have experienced everything from that jumbo rocket tampon to the new “Diva” cups to period underwear, to nasty hippy reusable pads. Again, I say, men would have found a way around all of this. 

Speaking of men, when I finally do get my wish and Aunt Flo stops coming to visit, what will half of the human population with the wiggly bits between their legs say when I’m having a bad day? They’ll probably still say, “she’s probably on the rag,” but they won’t be correct. Yes, sometimes menstruation can make you irrationally emotional, but guess what, Wiggly Bits? Sometimes we all just have a bad day, period.