Lady Times

Dearest Millicent,

Sorry to have been away so long.  I have spent the last few days grumbling to and fro, sometimes happy and productive, other times head-achy and dedicated to the art of pajama-wearing.  Part of the reason here is that it is that glorious time of the month.  I think I get angry every time I am dealing with my body’s revolutions, because of the fact that an entire half of the world’s population doesn’t have a clue what it feels like to have copious amounts of fluid (in fact, one of the visually scariest fluids we have (people are known to faint at the sight of it)) coming of out of your body, and that the entire event is supposed to be covertly handled.  If my elbow was spontaneously bleeding, I wouldn’t be expected to run and put on long sleeves, insist that every thing was very fine, and that in fact, tennis sounds wonderful after all.

I have heard women talk about how their partners are absolutely on good terms with their blood, and even mine insists that he is in no way bothered by it.  But still, when you wake up in the middle of the night and think you are leaking, it is a personal crisis akin to wetting the bed.  Witnesses do not help.  And, while I can get fussy about cramps and the craziness that we have to function normally when there is a migraine in our abdomen going on, I think the real absurdity is managing such a flow.  Today it strikes me as hilarious that I can have a heavy flow– –me as a little bio-hazardous fountain– –and I am supposed to contain all of that and not announce to the world what an awesome job of systems management is going on–no leaks, no grimacing, and all the proper acts of cleanliness and subterfuge taken.  I’m not saying ladies need to have responsibilities taken away from them when in the throes of menstruation.  I’m saying that we are all cold-blooded super spies, Les Femmes Nikitas, who can handle our shit. And that maybe I would just like a “Good job!” or a “You really took care of all that stuff coming out of your body! Way to go!” every once in awhile.

Ah, the joys of being reproductively mature,

How are you?




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