More Than You Need To Know

This morning I'm having one of
those The-Smithsonian-called-
and-they-want-to-stuff-you-
when-you're-dead moments.

You see, I'm menstruating.
Don't look away in disgust!
How do you think I feel!

Here I am, 55 and 1/2 years
old and my Aunt Flo from
Redlands is visiting...AGAIN!!

I'm on the rag. Miss Scarlett’s come home to Tara. I've gotten a dishonorable discharge
from the Uterine Navy. I'm saddling Ol' Rusty. It's game day for the Crimson Tide.
I've rebooted the Ovarian Operating System.

Under normal circumstances, I would never write about something this personal
because I am from a generation of people who never spoke out loud about anything
that, in the slightest, teeniest-tiniest, itsy-bitsiest way, referred to a bodily function.
But, I am so appalled, so amazed, so astonished by the inner workings of my body,
that I feel the need to share.

I would say I want you to "feel my pain," but there is no pain. There's nothing except
the continual need to go out and buy pads...or, no, I mean "feminine napkins." Now,
THAT'S a term from MY generation.

"Feminine Napkins" is a good one. Sort of makes you feel all warm and cozy. But,
isn't the use of the word "feminine" a redundancy in this case? I mean, they didn't
make "Masculine Napkins" did they? If they did, I really missed out on that! I shall
ask The Man whether or not he ever had need for a "Masculine Napkin" just as soon
as he wakes up this morning. I like to give him pause for thought first thing.

But, what I was going to say about buying the pads is that when I purchase them I
am aware of the furtive glance from most cashiers. Their eyes flicker up and look at
my old face, then they look back down. Then, suddenly, their thoughts begin scrolling
across their foreheads like a Jenny Holzer LED display. "She must be buying these
for her granddaughter!"

So, here I sit. Miss Eternally Fertile. Oh, I know what they say, that these aren't
real periods, that they're imitation, sort of like Imitation Ice Cream, or "I Can't Believe
It's Not Butter." But, I can tell they're real, all right. This is no imitation menstruation.
Which makes me wonder if, let's say, the Huns decided to attack Lime Plant City for
some raping and pillaging, well, could I get pregnant?

Whoa. I think my brain just did a polar shift. I have to pick myself up off the floor
and upright my chair.

I mean, OMG. Just imagine. What if?!

You'd see me on Oprah, for sure. She could do the whole show from here, filming the
results of the pillaging and at the end I'd come out and talk about my ordeal at
the hands of those disgusting Huns and I'd cry and stuff. And then, after the break,
would come the moment the world was waiting for: "Oprah, meet my son, Attila.
Say hello to the nice lady, Atti."

Future generations would pay to see me at The Smithsonian Institution, right there
in the American Anomalies and Freaks Collection, on display, eternally, forevermorally.

I'm ridin' the cotton pony right into immortality.

Wow. Giddyup there!



(Addendum: I asked The Man about whether or not he ever used a masculine napkin.
Without missing a beat he said yes, he often requested waiters to "please remove this
disgustingly inferior, offensive, dainty towelette and bring me a decent, Masculine Napkin."

Then, several moments later after having time to really think about it, he got all offended
and said he didn't want to talk about it, that it was a bit premature, that he wasn't ready
for diapers at this point. Maybe in the future. Gee. Methinks he doth protest too much.)