There is one thing that unites each and every single woman, whether they be mother and daughter, in the Western Hemisphere or the Eastern, best friends or mortal enemies. They all experience the same bloodshed, the same battle wounds, the same pains...all at the expense of the same hellion.
Fair warning, men, if any of the following words scares you, I highly recommend running away to find some other "manly" blog (i.e., something about drills, trucks, tools, mud...whatever it is your species likes): uterus, vagina, or ovaries. Any of you still around? Well, then, I applaud you. You might withstand getting married. It happens to all of us women, whether you like it or not. Don't worry, though. I'm pretty sure that the other guys who ran for it will wind up having all daughters. Now, onward!
So, for those of you who weren't aware of it, there's a small, powerful organ inside each and every woman. It produces the miracle of life. Beautiful, right? Wrong. This organ has serious attitude problems and a vendetta against each and every single woman in which it resides. If you think you and your uterus have a good, happy relationship, then I laugh. I'd be careful. She's a very pissy creature, and changes her feelings for you on a whim. Sometimes, she'll be merciful, and prolong the inevitable by a few days when there's something important going on -- like a long car ride somewhere and back. Sometimes, she won't give you any symptoms other than the one she absolutely has to, but sometimes even that won't be so bad. And then sometimes, something in her just snaps, and you find yourself growing a headache, feeling nauseous, with a backache, and so tired that focusing in class is impossible, and all of this makes no sense to you, because you shouldn't be having any symptoms for another week. Then the cramps start, and you realize what she's doing, and you find yourself curled up in your bed in the fetal position, clinging to a heating pad for dear life, and wishing you hadn't been nice enough to give your roommate the last of your Tylenol just a few hours before all of this started.
To any man who has ever questioned a woman's pains, let's make one thing clear: No uterus, no vagina, no opinion. If you can't bleed constantly for a week once a month, every month, without dying, then you shouldn't say anything. There are just some things you will never understand, and the symptoms of a period is one of them. There are the obvious ones -- cramps, that make a woman want to scream and rip out her uterus and offer it as a sacrifice if it means the pain will stop -- and then there are the not so obvious ones -- the headaches, backaches, the everything-aches-so-will-you-please-just-stop-talking-and-let-me-lie-here-while-I-die. A girl may feel nauseous, may have an increased or decreased appetite for being a carnivore (I personally go vegetarian for a couple of days when the symptoms are really bad), may find herself much more tired than usual.
Then there's what men like to label "PMS" and blame for all of our pissy behavior, but to be fair, we're experiencing so many other physical symptoms and the loss of an organ whom just last month was being very nice to us, that being friendly isn't a high priority. Now, to say that women get angry on their period would be a vast understatement. We don't get angry. We get irritated, and sad, and happy, and confident, and self-conscious. It's like a roller coaster self-esteem wise, which in turn leads to a roller coaster mood wise. One second, you feel like you can take on the world. The next, you find yourself once again curled up in the fetal position in your bed, clutching your heating pad, coming to the conclusion that you will die alone.
Sometimes, your uterus is more of a bitch than others. Sometimes she chooses to make you start early in the most inconvenient places -- such as five minutes after you get through security at the airport. And, since you weren't supposed to start for another several days, you have nothing in your carry-on to remedy the situation. Of course, it should be simple. Public restrooms always have those little things you can buy tampons or pads from. Except when they're out of order. And then you begin to think your uterus is really plotting against you and wants nothing more than to see you dead. Sitting in the stall, you may find yourself wondering what on earth you're going to do, when you sigh, choosing the not-so-appealing option which is your best bet at making sure your jeans don't get wounded from your uterus's vendetta. Wadding up a ton of toilet paper, you stick it in your underwear, making a flimsy, makeshift pad, and say a small prayer to God that you can make it safely in the next three hours to the other airport where hopefully their little machine won't be out-of-order.
Making a note of the 25 cents the out-of-order machine costs, you hurry to wait by your gate. When the cramps start in, you close your eyes and breathe slowly, using every ounce of your brain to recall what you learned about meditation and pain in your stress and anxiety class the semester before. It actually seems to work, and you say another little prayer thanking God. Finally, you board the plane, and sit for three hours, hoping that this will go well and that your toilet paper pad will last. Three hours crawl by, and at last, you find yourself practically running to the restroom. You checked while at the gate, and saw you had exactly one quarter, the same amount you needed at the other airport. And then you walk in, see the machine, see that it's perfectly in order, and -- it costs 50 cents. Damnation. Stifling a sob, you find yourself once again in a stall, wondering why your uterus is doing this to you. You have to make a new toilet paper pad, because the other one is no longer in working condition. It was a brave soldier. You sigh, and resolve to yourself that you will be at your apartment soon, where pads are plentiful, as are tampons. Finding your roommates, you give them a giant hug, happy to see them, but even more happy that they mean home. After an hour long car ride, that seems to take longer than normal (though that could be because the roommate driving is a safe, slow driver), you burst through the doors of your apartment. You say hi excitedly to two of your other roommates, then make a beeline for the door. At last, you have the proper equipment to take care of your uterus's hissy fit. It only took five hours.
And that is why, from that point on, even if it's in the middle of your cycle and you know you won't be starting soon, you pack at plenty of equipment. Just in case your uterus decides it's in a pissy mood again.
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