Do you remember Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret by Judy Blume? I read it in 3rd grade. Which seems a little young now that I think about it. It’s about this girl, Margaret who can’t wait to get her period. Every girl in school read it. Judy Blume always knows exactly how to capture adolescence and all the poignancy of the years up to adulthood. She’s like the John Hughes of authors. She’s a genius.
Well, I would like to rewrite that book if I could. It would be called- “Dear Eve, You Fucked Up and Periods Are A Bitch”.
God cursed us for Eve’s mistake and gave us labor pains and the monthlies. That’s what Judy Blume should have written about.
I know why we wanted to be Margaret in that book. We wanted to grow up. Every girl dreams of when they’re a grown woman. We put on mommy’s lipstick, her high heels, pretended to be secretaries or something with our purses and ‘checkbooks’ in them when we are 4 years old. I loved it when my mom would give me an old book of checks or a spare check register from the bank. I felt so grown up! Or maybe she would give me her old library card or something that I could pretend was a credit card. That was like Christmas!
After my visit to the doctor last week, ( Sometimes It Sucks Being a Woman…) to this week’s ultrasound that my doctor had me do, I felt like this whole ‘time of the month’ business is bullshit. No news here, I know.
No wonder they call it ‘the curse’, ‘being on the rag’. ‘Aunt Flo’ is putting it nicely for gosh sakes!
There’s a blogger, The Bearded Iris, who wrote- If Pollyanna Had a Period. If that doesn’t just crack me up!
Please no more commercials about making us happy about our periods. It’s as bad as Charmin commercials with bears telling us to ‘enjoy the go’.
So thank you ladies and gentlemen for enduring my post on periods. My husband is rolling his eyes and wondering when his next business trip might be so he can get the hell out of the house.
And by the way- the plumbing checked out clean on the ultrasound. The good news- no tumors or polyps in my hoo hoo that I need to worry about. The bad news- no tumors or polyps in my hoo hoo that weigh five pounds and can be removed for any instant weight loss. I was certain that the extra poof in my pooch was something horrible that needed to be removed surgically. Alas, I just need to do more Pilates.
Also, this means that solving my problems will go down in the books as ‘hormone therapy’. This is translation for, ‘we have no idea what the fuck is making you miserable, so try a combination of motrin and exercise and call us next month.’
Be sure to pay the parking attendant on your way out.