There is a reason why in ancient civilizations women went away from the tribe to weather out their menses. (Oh, FYI this blog entry is all about periods. Stop reading now if that makes you feel funny.) If I had no calender to refer to, I would always know when I’m about to get a visit from Aunt Flow because I feel like I’ve lost my skin. I become ridiculously sensitive, and more than a little anxious. If I had a choice, I would check out from the world this week, and spend the time sleeping, watching sweeping costume epics, eating chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven, taking baths and reading books. That’s what my cave would look like.
There would be no boys to confuse me, or make me feel awkward and uncertain. My girlfriends would brush my hair, and we would bake under the sun and whisper secrets to each other. Nobody would care that I’m bloated, and nobody would mind that I just want to cry for no apparent reason.
There would be a rocky outcrop to haul myself up to after a moon-lit skinny dip, and I would dry myself in the warm night air, while I felt the moon reminding me of my connection to the universe (apparently my period also turns me into a hippie). I’m not sure how we would McGuiver this, but there would be a hot fudge machine and an endless supply of vanilla bean ice cream and slightly salted cashews in my menstrual cave too. And all of the seasons of Sex And The City.
I would only be either naked or in flannel jammies, foot and bum rubs would happen without me even having to ask, there would always be a fresh pot of tea, a fluffy chick lit book to pick up, and the phone would only ring when my mom missed me, or cute boys wanted to tell me sweet things.
In summary; don’t ask me what’s wrong, because now you know, ok?