My period came today.
That is definitely a cause for rejoicing. My period is *always* on time, and now it was almost a week late and I was starting to get ideas.
Although now I realize that it is not late, February is just three days shorter than January and March and even my punctuality-nazi cycle couldn't make up for three days. I had just counted wrong. YES, I am THAT DUMB.
And now I am in SO MUCH pain I am starting to wonder what is the big deal about being pregnant. Ah, yes, that's right, a baby comes out of your vagina after nine mensturationless months. Oh, poo. What's that you say? Swollen ankles? Nausea? Having to pee every thirty seconds? Walking around with an elephant attached to the mid-section? OKAY I GET IT.
Menstruation is the one thing that I can't really share with Harlequin. Or that any woman can't really share with their partner. Except if that partner happens to be another woman. Those lucky lesbians! Oh, yes, and a man with a menstrual fetish, I guess. Although the thought of having anyone else's body parts within a foot of my uterus in these moments of abhorrent suffering makes me want to *kick*. So don't come offering sexual favours if you value your life, I AM WARNING YOU MENSTRUAL FETISHISTS.
Most men I've known show reactions that range from sympathetic indifference to woman-I'd-rather-have-my-eyeballs-clawed-out-than-hear-about-the-blood-that's-cascading-down-that-orifice-of-yours-that-I-usually-rather-like. The thing is, no matter how compassionate they are about our periods, they are practically oblivious to them, except for the "no sex for three days" consequence, I guess. It's an invisible pain that they can't fully comprehend because THEY DON'T HAVE THE EQUIPMENT TO REPLICATE IT (and offering to kick them in their nether regions won't quite do it, I am afraid). So when your loving partner looks at your bedraggled face and wonders what exactly you are doing in your dressing gown and pyjama bottom and a cup of tea at three in the afternoon, and you tell them your communist friend decided to drop by, don't resent him for not understanding. Is the price we pay for the ability to multitask, boobs, and prettier feet.
Oooh, I could SO do with some foot-loving right now.
That is definitely a cause for rejoicing. My period is *always* on time, and now it was almost a week late and I was starting to get ideas.
Although now I realize that it is not late, February is just three days shorter than January and March and even my punctuality-nazi cycle couldn't make up for three days. I had just counted wrong. YES, I am THAT DUMB.
And now I am in SO MUCH pain I am starting to wonder what is the big deal about being pregnant. Ah, yes, that's right, a baby comes out of your vagina after nine mensturationless months. Oh, poo. What's that you say? Swollen ankles? Nausea? Having to pee every thirty seconds? Walking around with an elephant attached to the mid-section? OKAY I GET IT.
Menstruation is the one thing that I can't really share with Harlequin. Or that any woman can't really share with their partner. Except if that partner happens to be another woman. Those lucky lesbians! Oh, yes, and a man with a menstrual fetish, I guess. Although the thought of having anyone else's body parts within a foot of my uterus in these moments of abhorrent suffering makes me want to *kick*. So don't come offering sexual favours if you value your life, I AM WARNING YOU MENSTRUAL FETISHISTS.
Most men I've known show reactions that range from sympathetic indifference to woman-I'd-rather-have-my-eyeballs-clawed-out-than-hear-about-the-blood-that's-cascading-down-that-orifice-of-yours-that-I-usually-rather-like. The thing is, no matter how compassionate they are about our periods, they are practically oblivious to them, except for the "no sex for three days" consequence, I guess. It's an invisible pain that they can't fully comprehend because THEY DON'T HAVE THE EQUIPMENT TO REPLICATE IT (and offering to kick them in their nether regions won't quite do it, I am afraid). So when your loving partner looks at your bedraggled face and wonders what exactly you are doing in your dressing gown and pyjama bottom and a cup of tea at three in the afternoon, and you tell them your communist friend decided to drop by, don't resent him for not understanding. Is the price we pay for the ability to multitask, boobs, and prettier feet.
Oooh, I could SO do with some foot-loving right now.
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