Nothing to See Here…

Posted By JustLinda on January 28, 2010

A few years ago, my sister bought me a really pretty pashmina for Christmas.  I love it.  I keep it at work because they tend to keep the office temperature set at a balmy 28 degrees.  That’s Farenheit, people.  COLD.  Sometimes, my fingers are so numb I can barely update my Facebook status!

So I wrap my pashmina around me and revel in it’s prettiness and warmth.  I think of my sister and of Christmas and puppies and kitties and pie.  Next thing you know, my fingers are completely thawed out but I’ve gotten so distracted by the shiny things that I am researching “western line dancing” or perhaps “hang gliding” and I’m still not getting work done.

I’m hoping that by having the post title be about lovely pashminas, all the men will be scared away.  What men want to talk about pashminas, right?  This is chick stuff here.

Because I’m about to take it to the Dante’s 9th level of chick stuff here – I’m going to talk about menstruation.

{Dude – I can see your IP address is a bit masculine and you clicked through to my site from a charlesbronsonsawimp.com, so obviously you’re laden with testosterone.  It’s not too late to hit the back button.  DO IT!  NOW!!!!}

The way I see it is this…  I already bleed all over the internets, metaphorically speaking.  It’s not that huge of a leap to actually bleed metaphorically on the topic of bleeding physically.  Besides, it won’t be my first foray into this topic.  Ahem.

I’m female and I menstruate.  I cannot even think about that word, menstruate, without hearing the distinctive pronunciation that Sister Johnette used when she explained it all to us girls in grade school.  First of all, what the hell do NUNS know about menstruation, right?  Oh, shut-up.  I was just a kid and I figured that they had an inside track to God and could just request that such an awful thing be switched off, thankyouverymuch.

So, menSTROOOOOation.  Most of us women deal with it.  Indirectly, many of you men do too.  (What are you still DOING here?!?!?! You had your chance to run.  Now sit down and listen.)  Sometimes I’m not really sure which gender is more victimized by menSTROOOOOation.  But I’m pretty prone to feeling sorry for myself, so I’m going to say ME.  Er, I mean us.

Solidarity NOW, bitches!

I’m done with it.  Over, finito.  I want it all gone.  I want it to stop.  It serves no purpose whatsoever except to annoy the ever-living fuck out of me month after month.  Oh, wait – what I meant was every 23 days.  Yes, I am the proud owner of a 23 day cycle.   Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot?  (Yes, I know that bit is so overdone but I’ve never used it before and I want to be one of the cool kids.)

It’s likely that I have entered this stage called perimenopause. Maybe.  Are you familiar with it? Yeah, it’s real scientific. It is basically everything that happens leading up to menopause. Go Google the symptoms – I’ll wait right here.

Did you read them?

‘Cause here is what I got from doing that. Perimenopause could start the day before you hit menopause or it could start up to a few decades before. It could mean heavier periods or it could mean lighter periods. It could mean you sleep all the time or it could mean you can’t sleep at all. It could mean your periods get closer together or it could mean they get further apart. It could mean you get depressed or it could mean you get manic. It could mean your cramps get better (hey! better cramps! how exciting!!!!!!) or it could mean they get worse. It could mean you have hot flashes or it could mean you have chills. It could mean you have changes in your sleep patterns, or not, or changes in your moods, or not, or changes in your body hair, or not, or changes in…

Well, you get the idea.

So, here’s the deal: I could right now this minute be in perimenopause. Or not.

Who knows. I mean, I’m breathing and I’m pretty sure that’s probably one of the symptoms.

I am, however, on my period.  And was on it when I was at work.  And even though I’d done everything I was supposed to do to protect myself femininely (what is feminine protection, anyway?  my husband would say “a mauve flamethrower”, whatever that means), even though everything was plugged or padded and there were wings and super-maxi-absorbency, even though all of that was true, well, sometimes a girl still has to sneeze.

And, oh Internet, it was quite the sneeze.  And I knew.  I just knew that something somewhere down in my area had gone amiss.  The good news is now that I’ve dropped almost 100 pounds, I can look down and see.  The bad news is that now that I’ve dropped almost 100 pounds, I can look down and see. {blink}

GOOD GRIEF.  Suddenly I’m like a 13 year old middle-schooler asking my friends to check the back of my Catholic school uniform skirt because my worst fear was bleeding all over it at school and people KNOWING.  ‘Cause, you know, 13 year old girls like to totally keep menSTROOOOation a secret.

I am 45, though, and I was sitting in my office with the messy effects of a phenomenal sneeze evident on my clothing.  That same 13 year old panic rose up in my throat… how will I make it through the colony of geeks to get to the restroom?

And then, from the corner of my eye, I saw my pashmina.  My lovely pashmina, that I wrapped around my waist while I walked like a gazelle and used my powers of mind control to bend people to my will. “Don’t LOOK!”, I emoted, and they didn’t.  Mostly because of the cloak of invisibility thing, I guess.  Wish I would have had that at age 13.

I went to the ladies room and cleaned up as best I could.  As I was standing at the sink getting my pants clean and hoping no one walked in, I thought to myself I should make a blog post that reflects the Top Ten Reasons We Know Public Restrooms Are Designed by Men.  And here’s the top reason right here — there is no way to maintain your dignity while rinsing blood out of your pants while you stand by the sink in your underwear. I thumb my nose at those who designed the women’s communal restrooms.

I did my best, got dressed and then wrapped the pashmina around again as I made my walk of shame (wet pants! not bloody, though! just looks like I peed myself!) back to my office where, for the rest of the day, I stayed put firmly behind my desk.

{sigh}

If there ends up being a brutal murder in my office building today, and the CSI people find my fingerprints and blood DNA all over the damn place, will you be my alibi?  Please?  Because while I may think about murdering people while I am menSTROOOOating, I swear I would never do it.

~~~~~~~~~

And with this post, I shall join the ranks of the TMI Thursday bloggers, a group of people who overshare on the internet every single week!  I stumbled upon this little club at a great blog called LivitLuvit and there is even a little visual badge that comes with my membership kit.  Does this make me one of the cool kids or just another dork on the ‘net?

Category: Indiscriminate Drivel
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