It’s Valentine’s Day which, as far as I can tell, is just as good a day as any to get my blog rolling again. So, here we go. I have no plan (except to stir up zero controversy) so let’s just see where this takes us, shall we?
Things have been stressful around here recently but, never fear, while all of the stress has been raining (snowing?) down on my head, embarrassing things have not stopped happening to me. I don’t know if you have noticed but embarrassing things happen to me often. And I find that I become less embarrassed if, rather than skulking around feeling like an ass, I broadcast my embarrassment to all who feel compelled to read about it.
Before I continue I should probably let you know I am about to write about my period. For those of you who are weird and don’t like reading about such things, you should maybe just stop reading now and then go in the other room and grow up a little. Then come back and try again. You’ll get there eventually. I believe in you. (Dad, maybe you get a free pass on this one.)
This past Tuesday I returned from my annual friends-visiting trip to New Orleans. My period always comes on vacation. Always. No matter what time of the month I go, no matter when my last period was, it always always always comes. I know this and yet I never pack accordingly. It’s like a game of chicken I insist on playing and my period always wins. Every single time. When I was packing I even thought to myself, “Self, you should probably pack some tampons. Nah. There is no way it’ll come.” Stupid. I was just like willing it to arrive. Taunting it. You know what periods don’t like? Being taunted. Take my word for it. So there I was, on Monday morning, realizing that perhaps it was coming. But did I do anything about it? No, of course I didn’t. I just went about my day, casually passing all manner of store, not stopping in to buy the appropriate gear. I made it through Monday unscathed and then Tuesday came. All morning I was good to go. I decided that it would probably be in my best interest to buy a box of just-in-case tampons. But I was on a time crunch so instead of walking to where I knew there was a pharmacy with all kinds of choices, I went to a little store in the Quarter to buy a box of “regular” tampons which, when I am in the midst of my flow, are utterly useless. But did I think about that? No. And did I think about the impending danger when I put one, yes one, useless little tampon in my shoulder bag and the rest of the box in my bag that was checked under the plane? No, if course I didn’t. Because I am a smart and reasonable human being. I bet you can guess what happened next. But in case you can’t, I will tell you all about it.
Cue dramatic music.
It was exactly halfway through the flight when I decided to stretch my legs and take a walk down to the bathroom. I stuck the one solitary tampon in my pocket and moseyed on down the aisle. I got into the bathroom and wouldn’t you know it, blood everywhere. This, ladies and gentlemen, is my worst nightmare. Being on an airplane in a teeny tiny bathroom with a toilet that I am always afraid is going to suck me in and spit me out into the open air, impossible to use sinks, no maneuvering room, clothes packed up and locked under the plane, and one stupid ass tampon with the absorbancy of a fucking cotton ball. Obviously I had a mini panic attack. And of course there were like three dudes waiting to get into the bathroom when I emerged after trying, in vain, to blot all the blood away. And to bring the trio of terrible home, there was only one female flight attendant and she was without supplies. I took a stack of napkins to sit on for the rest of the flight in an effort to not run the upholstery. She looked on in pity and said “we’ve all been there.” I don’t know if we’ve all sat in a pool of our own blood on the plane for over an hour, but I appreciated the sentiment.
And then the plane landed. Hurrah! I felt lucky that I had worn my darkest pair of jeans but sad that my sense of style did not allow me the foresight to wear a long enough top to cover my ass. I also cursed the vanity that simply would not allow me to tie my sweatshirt around my waist. I figured if I walked really fast to the bathroom people would be none the wiser. Only do you know what they no longer have in the bathrooms at John F Kennedy International Airport? Tampon and pad vending machine things. Do they think only bionic and pre and post-menopausal women travel by air?! Clearly yes. Obviously all of the women in the bathroom fit into the latter category. As I ran to the door to go to my flight’s assigned carrousel to check and see if my bag had miraculously not been the last one to emerge from the depths of the plane, a woman appeared, as if from heaven itself, and handed me a pad. Oh, happy day! Of course I was wearing a (ruined) thong which meant that when I stuck the pad to my underwear and walked around it just burrowed further and further up my ass. Not terribly comfortable but better than blood dripping down my legs, am I right?
Anyway, I retrieved my bag, got in a cab, got home, threw my underwear out, used that shout stain guard stuff that works pretty well and also gets this song stuck in my head for days (still singing it!), and took a shower. I haven’t had the guts to look at my pants to see whether or not they are ruined foreva. They probably are. And that, my friends, is what happens when you taunt Aunt Flo. She eats you alive.
franklyrebekah 
3 Responses to “Happy Bloody Valentine’s Day, Folks.”