I did not want to have to eventually explain the
Perhaps you'll be appalled to know that at 32 years old, the expression my face makes -involuntarily, I assure you - when I imagine myself explaining menstruation to the P. looks something like one of the more horrific Inca portraits.You've no doubt encountered some of the moon cult types who practically worship at the alter of Aunt Flo. Or maybe just the less intense version in the form of women who get all googly-eyed and soft voiced when discussing the Crimson Tide.
That's not me. Which probably became obvious to anyone who decided to talk womanhood with me the first time I refer to my period as Shark Week.
Someday, the P. is going to bring home a pamphlet or worse, a whole packet with samples of granny pads and diagrams that make the female reproductive system look something like a post-modern pink elephant. Hopefully by then I will have at least touched on the topic of Miss Scarlett's Homecoming. Playing Banjo in Sgt. Zygote's Ragtime Band. Rebooting the Ovarian Operating System. And maybe I'll even use real science-ready terminology if she's lucky!
But I'll be darned if I'm going to try to make monthly vaginal bleeding into some mystical experience or *gag me* one of the highlights of womanhood. That road, as far as I can tell, leads to nothing but disappointment. As much as Big Menstruation pushes the idea that Shark Week numero uno is a girl's exciting entrance into womanhood, it's also her introduction into roughly 35 years of regular rounds of black underpants and sleeping on towels.