Sunday, August 19, 2007 at 3:09 PM Good evening, dear friends and lurking ne'er-do-wells. Come sit around my faux-log fireplace wrapped in cobwebs and Christmas lights and have a cup of stale generic black tea. Go on, have a little more cream. No, I insist, I think it's going to turn soon and I feel bad about throwing it out. Go ahead and throw your feet up on the coffee table; see those black smears all around the edges? Yes, that's from my own feet, so don't let the thought of sanitation hold you back. Now that we're all here and comfy, I am not at all reminded of the first time I started my period. Ah, menstruation. For years we girls were prepped for our coming "flower," and by prepped of course I mean terrorized. I remember my teacher, Mrs. -- well, I don't remember her goddamn name. But she had that 80's pixie cut, all big and styled in the front, it's hairsprayed rigidity demonstrated by an ossified shiver every time she moved her head too quickly. Mrs. Pixie was of the slender firecracker class of elementary school teachers (I had a preference for the chubby, imperturbable type), and she opened every day of our mutually-dreaded "Health Unit" with a promise to have "zero tolerance" for anyone that laughed, giggled, sniggered, chuckled, smiled or otherwise mocked the disgusting and hilarious processes of maturation. Her "zero tolerance" proved to be a trip to the hallway, followed by an earnest discussion about how she understood that people laughed when they were nervous. In other words, infinite tolerance. I already knew the big red-headed girl named Hannah in our class had already started her period. We never spoke, Hannah and I, for no reason other than we had no reason to. I suppose this made me an ideal person to blurt out to, while passing each other in the hall in the middle of class, "I'm going home - I started my period!" She had the look of a soldier announcing the total loss of their platoon. I don't remember what I said back, but I remember being sincerely shocked, which seemed like a good response. She was relieved I didn't laugh. I promised not to tell anyone before she asked, and off she ran. I don't think we ever spoke again. In retrospect, I think that was my best human-to-human relationship of my entire life. Back at the Health Unit, things were getting gory. There is little in the world as incredibly uncomfortable as having an embarrassed, nervously stuttering adult describing using a tampon to a group of 5th grade, co-ed students. I, like most girls in the room, imagined blood rushing from my crotch at the same rate that urine did. I could only think of one possible scenario: menstruating like a scarlet pants-pissing in the middle of gym class. There was no alternative. That's what I had to look forward to. I diligently set to work partitioning off another percentage of my emotions behind a wall off gristle and self-loathing. Over the years, the stories began to trickle in. Most girls were smug: So-and-so started her period. Oh, well, I've been on MY period for months now. My best friend of the era told me a friend of hers had started her period the night before -- while sitting on the toilet! What bloody fucking luck! I seethed inwardly, knowing my inevitable mid-gym deluge was soon approaching. I had been eagerly awaiting a good friend's weekend slumber party for weeks: Helga, who was a few years older than me, lived in the same neighborhood and had been telling me of her birthday plans for some time. We'd have rootbeer floats, watch horror movies on VHS and order pizza. We'd play with the Ouija board and though we were a little too old, play Bloody Mary. On that Friday after school, Helga's mother picked five or six of us girls up in her station wagon to take us to a movie (this was back before people died in car crashes if they weren't wearing their seatbelts). The problem was, that afternoon I had developed a mean little backache. Just sitting at my desk in class caused a dull ache to move up my lower back, and I'd scrounged and begged and finally found another student to share some Tylenol with me. Nevertheless, as soon as class got out we piled into the wagon. I was the smallest by far, so it was decided that I would sit on Helga's lap, Helga being the largest of us by far. We all clown-carred in there, packed together, shrieking and generally being the sort of abrasive, thoughtless teenage girls that everyone loathes, even other teenage girls. But as I sat there on Helga's lap, I suddenly felt a tickle. Down, you know, there. I clenched and froze. What the hell was that? It's a difficult sensation to describe, but there was definitely something not right. I locked myself into such a stony, flexed state that Helga noticed and asked if her lap was getting uncomfortable. I nodded and shifted onto one of my hips, lifting my crotch off her lap in the hopes that whatever the fuck was happening wouldn't affect her. I thought about unicorns. Once we arrived at the theater, I hung back a little from the other girls, waited until they ran ahead, and then darted into the restroom. Once in the stall, I surveyed the damage: not what I expected. To my shame and horror, what appeared to be a tiny little doody stain greeted my from the inside of my virginal white panties. I scrubbed furiously at the brown spot and cleaned myself up. I was mortified: how could I be shitting my pants? How could I not notice? I carefully folded a wad of toilet paper into a pad and placed it in my underpants. A box of Twizzlers, Sourpatch Kids, half a tub of popcorn and a large Coke later, I had utterly forgotten about being Dorky McPoopypants. Over the rest of the evening I made frequent, difficult-to-explain trips to the restroom and sat with conspicuously crossed legs through a rootbeer belching contest, a powerful Ouija board scare, Aliens and one vicious round of Truth or Dare. Each trip to the restroom disclosed more brownish-grey drops -- nevermind that they didn't seem to be coming from my rear end. I decided I had rectal cancer and then fell asleep on my sleeping bag at 4am. The next day, as I was walking home down our sparsely inhabited forest road with my sleeping bag slung over my shoulder, it dawned on me: Old blood is brown. I have this distinct memory: actually slapping myself in the forehead. Forehead-slapping is a demonstration of the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle: theoretically, you know, people might be doing it out of sincere unintentionally comedic enlightenment, but being an observer changes everything. Mine was the former. I walked into the house, put my sleeping bag away, found my mom and announced with absolutely feigned nonchalance: "I started my period." I paused. "I think." "You think?" "It wasn't what I expected." My mother's expression remained immobile. "Okay. I'll get you some things." "Okay." —hash-is-gay |
