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My biggest problem with menstruation is probably the words used to describe it. First: menstruation. It’s just a horrible word. (If you’re interested, my other hated words: panties, slacks, moist. The worst sentence in the world: “Her menstrual flow moistened her panties and slacks.”) Period is no good either. And most of the euphemisms are even worse—“Aunt Flo,” “on the rag,” “riding the crimson wave,” “the curse.” It’s like a cabal of sexless nuns and sex-crazed 12-year-old boys got together and came up with every word or phrase to describe a woman’s cycle. There’s a damp reek of mothballs and Cheez-Its hanging over them all.
On the other hand, I’ve always viewed the thing itself, the, er…time of the month, as inevitable and nothing $10 and a trip to the drugstore can’t resolve. But when it stopped for a year or so while I gestated and lactated, I found that I did enjoy the absence of mood swings, of cramps, of blood. I lapsed into denial that I’d ever had a period, that it would ever come back.
Then one day I found myself screeching obscenities at a parking garage attendant before storming out, in tears, yelling, “I’m never using this garage again!” (I’m sure he was heart-broken.) While the situation was frustrating−he wouldn’t give me my car−I was rattled that I was so rattled. And the feeling persisted for days. I felt nauseated and filled with neck-throttling rage. I wasn’t sleeping, my skin broke out, I was bloated…and then, of course, I got my period. Ah, you again.