thediastema's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Normally I do not write about this stuff, but do I get appreciation for that? Nooooooooo. May I admonish you: this one's gonna be gross, so if gynecology of any sort gives you the heebs, now might be the time to go someplace a little less menstrual. I promise I've got nothing but love for the guys out there who find themselves a little freaked out by stuff of this nature. Hell, I, too, like to pretend periods only happen to hairy-legged bra-burners and ultra-feminine Oprah viewers. Alas... Now that the squeamish dudes are finally out of here, I'd like to add that I'm never putting out for any of them. Not even Drew. When I woke today I was in decent enough shape to get through a bath which included my usual double-shampoo, conditioning, full-body scrub, and the depilation of all leg and axillary hair. After brushing my teeth, a glance in the mirror revealed pupils at an unnatural, unaltering state of dilation, and a complexion Yuppie is wont to describe as "Wow, even paler than usual!" Indeed, I made Nicole Kidman look like the Coppertone baby. The old one. Within five minutes of this observation, I was on the verge of syncope, wearing only a towel, and pinned to my bed by a pudgy young tomcat. After a few minutes' rest I rose again and was able to stave off the dry heaves until I had finished applying a day's worth of $21-a-jar Lancome concealer to a week's worth of dark circles and blotchiness. Until, and only until. Fortunately I'd not ingested much since mid-evening yesterday, and so the furniture retained its virtue. The sinking sensation remained that my reproductive system had been ripped out by angry lobsters, cubed with a dull chef's knife, and prepared in the form of retaliatory shish kebabs, and replaced in my lower abdomen. I don't even eat seafood; ergo, I did not deserve this. But mustering the few coherent phrases I could, I made the call to my boss, HRH, while still balled up on the living room floor, clad in the same towel that was probably exposing my tampon removal cord to public scrutiny. (I warned you.) I explained that I was having a very hard time (a) not vomiting and (b) not passing out, and that I worried this might have an unsavoury impact on my performance in the office. I did not tell HRH that this was a direct consequence of my incredibly stupid electing to be born female wayyyy back at the time of my conception in mid-April of 1981. I might have told my other liberal, vegetarian female boss, but not HRH. Because HRH has no ovaries. (Tones might file that one under "Stuff My Boss Tells Me.") HRH once had ovaries, and indeed, where did they get her? They made her a bride at 18, and an impoverished single mother several years later. Without ovaries, she's the treasurer of a well-respected professional arts organization, happily married to the managing director of same, and, in her early fifties, well-preserved enough to kick my ovary-sporting ass to next July. She once represented to me the idea that a woman could have it all. Now I know she's just another article of proof that the business and athletic worlds like you much, much better if you do not have ovaries. This is not to say that I believe menstruation makes women undesireable as professionals. Billions of women are capable of clenching their teeth, popping a midol at the first sign of Aunt Flo, and showing up at the office none the worse for wear -- some, even on time. What really gets to me is that I am not one of these people. I don't get sick too often, mainly because I'm not good at it. I prefer my routine, and I prefer it uninterrupted by something so taboo as biology. Additionally, I know menstruation's generally unpopular with guys, and I am nothing if not a wannabe Aphrodite. Name someone else who colours her hair, has had plastic surgery, won't leave the house without makeup, shaves every day and makes diligent effort to match impractical pretty bras to impractical pretty panties. I am a damn rare find. (Or perhaps I'm just trying way too hard, considering I was last called "hot" in October.) So, indeed, I prefer to pretend I don't do it, this thing Cartman calls "blood-belching," and that I don't understand my friends who do. "Like, how are you ever going to catch a husband that way?" I'll often ask a friend in the throes of cramps and fatigue. Then, if it's after five p.m., I'll prescribe a heavy beer. Unfortunately, heavy beer is not the sort of remedy that works in the morning on the way to the office. So I missed work for the third time in my tenure at the theatre -- the first instance in my year with this department. I spent the morning tossing and turning about the axis of a heating pad. Bisky was in attendance with a look of mild concern occasionally traversing his strawberry-blond face. In my state of pain-induced delirium and throbbing disgust with my Creator, I was reminded that at least I believe in love at first sight, and at least I don't get depressed during these monthly ordeals (just obnoxiously cynical). I thought about the whole thing, a whole bunch. Especially at the times I was conscious. I decided I need someone to refer me to a doctor who will write me a prescription for Ortho Tri-Cyclen without an appointment. Anybody? ~ETK 14:20 - 14 March, 2003 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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