Day #7 Question: The worst thing that could happen to me is…
I’ve noticed that as these days are rolling by my posts are getting more and more honest. This one is no exception. I must preface this by saying that if you haven’t read the book Your Changing Body, you may want to check it out before reading this post. Also, if you’re prone to sudden vomiting brought on by unsavory topics, you may want to skip this post and reread the one above about my cat.
This post is rated TMI. Parental Guidance is Suggested
Well, the answer to this question is pretty obvious. I think most people will claim that the number one worst thing that could happen to them would be the death, injury, or maiming of one of their loved ones. I am certainly no exception in giving the same answer, however, that response makes for a very short blog, so I will tell you that the number two worst thing that could ever happen to me. The second worst thing that could happen to me is that my body would fail me and forget to go through menopause. At 47, this is something that I’m certainly beginning to worry about, because every month, like clockwork, my little friend is there in all her raging glory, determined to ruin at least a week out of my month. Menopause is something I have looked forward to going through ever since I was twelve years old, and if Mother Nature let’s me down with this event, I’m going to be miffed!
I remember the day that I started my period. It was the very first day that I began dreaming about menopause It was also the first day of spring. I was wearing my very cool green Levis, a Peter Frampton Live tee shirt, and bikini underwear with little pink and purple umbrellas on them. I had long ago read the book Your Changing Body that had been lovingly presented to me by my mother on my 12th birthday, along with a huge box of thick Kotex Classics and a Schwinn 10-speed. While I was fairly pissed at my mother for allowing me to open such a personal gift in front of my grandfather, I didn’t think too much more about my own changing body or about the jumbo pads that I’d stashed away in my closet right before going out to ride my new bike. Less than a month later, still not expecting to need one of those bulky little monsters for quite a while, I “started” right in the middle of English class. I excused myself, and made my way to the restroom, anxiously shaking my backpack, hoping against hope that I’d find a dime for the pad machine in the bathroom. I had no such luck and I knew better than to query any of the girls herded around the restroom mirror, putting on strawberry Lip Smacker, for a dime. “Hey, do you have a dime?” Is junior high code for, “I’M HAVING MY PERIOD!” and the repercussions of that were far more embarrassing than bleeding on my umbrella underwear. So, being the resourceful girl that I am, I fashioned a make-shift pad out of toilet paper and went on about my day. I had gym, then lunch and right afterward I decided to go to the restroom to see how my new “situation” was coming along. Upon pulling down my cool green jeans, I was horrified to find that my homemade pad was gone! I was catapulted into a frenzy of panic. I checked my pant legs. I checked the bathroom floor. I asked the girls around the mirror if they had seen a homespun pad. (Just kidding; that would have been social suicide!) It had vanished! I imagined it hiding somewhere in the school hallway or in a classroom, hunkered down in a corner hoping that no one would find it and reveal its shame. I quickly fashioned a new pad and rushed off to math class, but I didn’t get very far down the hallway before I ran into a group of my classmates playing a jolly game of “Kick the Pad.” “Hey, Sprinkles, look, it’s someone’s gross pad!’ a boy said as he kicked it towards me. “Disgusting!” I replied as I returned the kick. “Who would do something so vile?’ Everyone was laughing and kicking, but I was probably laughing the hardest because I knew that no one suspected it was mine! Finally, a teacher broke up our little game of Kotex soccer and sent us to class.
That evening, over a cup of tea, and with much laughter, I recounted my rough day to my mom, who responded with appropriate empathy. “When will this mess end?” I asked her. “At what age will I go through menopause?” She assured me that sometime in my late 40s or early 50s that my monthy guest would end its visits. So, I guess now, after years of putting up with Mother Nature’s “little gift,” I’m getting more than a little impatient. I’m done with having children. I’m seriously over the cramping, the bloating, the mood swings and the general bitchiness that PMS causes me each month. From my general knowledge of biology I know that eventually my monthly event is sure to cease and desist, but there is one small part of me that fears I’ll be buying Kotex when I’m 89, and that is the second worst thing that could even happen to me!