The day I started my period was the worst day of my life. It
was the day that I got caught in the undertow that pulled me away from glorious
childhood to the deep, murky waters of adulthood. To this day, I swim against
that red tide. I know, I know. They always tell you not to fight the tide, just
swim with it. Not me. I battle the pull with arms and legs flailing. It will
not drag me under. I’ve seen what it does. I want butterflies and dreams, thank
you very much. To this day, I have a recurring nightmare of getting caught in a
tidal wave. Only, I’m not on shore watching it, I’m in the water struggling to
crest the peak of the wave and not get pulled under.
It didn’t help that I refused to listen to the birds and
bees speech my poor Mom tried to give to me and my brother, Ton. She tried
really hard to do the right thing by us. But we were impossible. We would laugh
ourselves to tears every time she said one word. “Penis” would turn us to jello
for an hour. She finally bought a book, hoping if she could just read through
it with us we would get a clue and glide into adulthood and human sexuality on
fairy tale wings. The book showed everything using cartoon drawings. I can only
remember the page that had the cartoon boy standing on the cartoon diving board
in front of all his cartoon friends and his cartoon swim trunks were bulging
with his cartoon boner. She lost me and Ton forever. She never got through the
book and she never tried again.
So the day I got my period I thought was the official last
day of childhood, of fun, of laughter…ever. It happened on Mother’s Day. I didn’t
tell my mom when I discovered blood when I went pee. I spent the whole day
stuffing toilet paper in my undies and willing the cursed bloody end to my
childhood to go pick on someone else. By nighttime, I realized I couldn’t do
this on my own, so I called my Mom into my room. I was on my bed weeping as a
girl who just lost her best friend. I had. My Mom got the worried frown between
her brows and asked what was wrong.
“I got…I got my period!” More distraught weeping. My Mom
started laughing.
“What’s wrong with that, honey?”
“Now I have to grow up!” Inconsolable now.
Then my Mom took me to the bathroom where she had hidden a
care package just for that moment. She pulled out what looked like a riding
saddle connected to a utility belt. What? It was a belt and the gigantic pad
(no wings back then) was supposed to threaded and held in place using this
belt. Oh my God, my life was truly over.
She forgot to tell me that the blood only happens for 5 to 7
days, so I wore that belt every single day. We went waterskiing and I couldn’t
go in the water. That belt could hold enough water to pull me down and anchor
me like a body getting tossed by the mafia. If this was adulthood, I wanted
out. I don’t remember how I finally discovered that I could take the belt off
once in awhile. It was probably one of my friends who told me. It was probably
a friend who told me about sticky pads and tampons too. None of those nifty
inventions could fix the real problem. I was being sucked into adulthood
without my permission.
I’m 35 years older now. I haven’t had a period for a decade,
thanks to a wonderful little surgery. I think a little bit of the weight was
lifted the day of that surgery. No more blood, no more responsibilities, right?
But every time I do the shopping or pay the bills, I feel like I should check
my undies for the dreaded red. Why can’t some of us choose to remain kids? I
was good at being a kid. I invented things and had forts and stayed out until
the streetlights came on. I had friends who didn’t expect anything more from me
than yelling out “Marco” in the pool.
I suck at being an adult. I have been unprepared for it my
whole life. I dreaded it as a kid and dread it more as an adult. My best
moments are still the ones where I am a kid again: Jumping down a giant mound
of sand and rolling to the bottom; Driving with the windows down and yelling “Wahooooooo!”;
Making up weird dances and forcing Jonas to learn them; Wearing ridiculous hats
in public; Doing the YMCA with 50 of my best friends…
So the next time you see a commercial with flying maxipads
or tampons that promise to conform to your every unique curve, think of a kid
out there who forfeited their happy lifestyle for cotton. Think of me.
