Chick stuff

I have been menstruating for 30-some years. Not always on schedule, of course, but let's just say that as of March 14, 2005, this hideous thing has happened to me at least 381 times.

Why is it such a big fucking surprise every time?

I'm sure that part of the problem is that I just don't pay attention to the whole cycle the way I would if I were accustomed to worrying about getting pregnant. I've almost always been either on the pill or dating girls, so it's just not a big deal, except when it's a big deal and you should know better you idiot what do you mean you have no idea whether or not your period is late? Like, um, last month.

So picture it: there I am, living my life in my pleasant enough little world. Things are going right or maybe a few things are going wrong, but I can handle it. It's fine. Good, even. I am strong and competent. My bills are usually paid; my numerous and interesting friends all care about me. Sometimes I have a lover; sometimes I don't. I eat sensible things that I cook myself. I exercise, I get things done on time, I walk the dog.

Then one day I just burst into tears while I'm driving, for example, or I accidentally uncover a plot among my so-called friends to humiliate me yet again, or I catch my lover noticing for the very first time that I am fat. Or I notice that I don't have a lover, and no wonder! I'm fat!

I let the phone ring, and check the message later. It's my mother. Maybe I'll call her in the morning.

I'm late for something, but I have to eat right now. I mean, this minute. I go to the drive-thru and get a Filet-O-Fish sandwich. Yes, goddammit, I want fries with that. And a diet fucking soda, yes, that's right. Diet.

My breasts are at least eight times their normal size – I know this means that I am dying of breast cancer. I've never heard of that either, but it's probably too late for any treatments. It's OK, though; my life is not worth living anyway. My clothes don't fit, and why are they all so fucking ugly? Even my shoes are ugly. Every goddamn shoe in North Carolina is ugly. I am desperately horny. I will probably never get laid again as long as I live. Maybe there is some chocolate in my pocketbook.

Somehow I can ignore every one of these clues, no matter how many times it happens. I cannot remember ever feeling like this before. I am exhausted. I can't possibly sleep. I drop everything I pick up. One more thing will just push me over the edge, I know it will. Hell, I'm gonna jump. Why wait around for the inevitable?

Just before I get there and hurl myself into the abyss, though, it all falls into place. I have cramps! I'm bleeding! This is normal! I'm so happy!

Then maybe I'll get mad (again) about the price of tampons. Complain that I have to pay sales tax on them. Complain about sales taxes generally. And the whole fucking goddamn regressive tax system, who the hell thought that up? And the federal government, I mean, what's up with the UFO cover-ups? Or those goddamn black helicopters? And poverty and racism. Global climate change, the melting Antarctic ice sheet, that asshole in the White House, whatever. Doesn't even matter which one.

Then I call my mother back and she reminds me that menopause is just around the corner.

Is she trying to be funny?