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  • Writer's pictureJafei Pollitt

The Golden week for Girls

There comes a time in a girls life when she goes from being an awkward, tween youth with curly bangs and four pairs of pink, plaid capri pants to being a wannabe social woman who knows how to small talk and vape. This is the time of the Period. A latin term meaning “your vagina’s going to die.” The first time a girl gets her period, it’s exciting. I remember the first time I got my period, I was ambitiously going to the bathroom every four minutes because of the “cramps” I could feel coming on. I  actually just really had to poop, but I refused to think I wasn’t on the verge of womanhood. I knew since my friend Maddie had gotten her period a week earlier (in the church bathroom, no less) then I was definitely going to get mine soon too because I heard about syncopation between best friends and I was ready to take full advantage of her new gift.

Looking back on it, I don’t know why I was so excited. I think I just wanted to be like my sister, who ,one time, during a hike had to change her tampon, but couldn’t because if you leave a tampon in the forest, someone’s gonna find it and think it’s really gross.  So she let it sit and fester for the rest of the way down the mountain until we spotted a dirty port-o-potty at the trails end. Did she bleed through? Did she ruin her underwear? Was it really all that bad? I’ll never know, the only thing I know was that I wanted to be like her and have the struggle of replacing cotton in my cooch to prove to myself I was ready for adulthood.

Now that I am in  Adulthood, I have never wanted to go back to my youthful, bloodless days so badly. I can’t count the number of times I have completely terminated a pair of undies nor can I count the number of times I have rewashed and re-worn my underwear because I just didn’t feel like taking a trip down to Ross to buy myself another bulk pack of Fruit of the Loom. I did, at one point in my life, go out and buy myself some blue, lace cheeky’s from H&M because they were having a sale and my daily horoscope said I might get some action if I stopped wearing the undergarments of a woman who looks like she’s already had three kids. The panties were well seen and well worn throughout my senior year until the day came where, you guessed it, I murdered somebody and dunked the underwear in their blood.

The worst part about all of this was it happened while I was at my highschool boyfriend’s house and instead of being a responsible, guilty teen and stuffing them in my bag to run home and cry to my mother, I left them there. Better yet, he put them in a plastic baggy and kept them in good condition for me to try and salvage later. Good guy, but I think I would have preferred if he would have just done the normal thing and set them ablaze in the backyard.

Since that scarring night, I have progressed in bleeding through swimsuit bottoms, thongs (that’s my fault for even wearing one), and car seats. Don’t worry, it was a rental and we were in Mexico so they’ll never catch me. I have survived many horrifying period stories, but have yet to learn anything. Progress comes slowly for me. Maybe right when I go into Menopause it’ll click and I’ll say to my devoted and chubby hubby “If I get me some of those THINX panties that everyone’s talking about then I can stop worrying so much.  Honey? I’ve fixed the issue I’ve been having for over 39 years with bleeding through every article of clothing I own. I know, isn’t it great? Haha, yea. Okay, I’m just gonna get online and order these bad boys…hey, honey, can you turn off the heat? It’s getting kind of hot in here. It’s only 60 degrees? I don’t think so, feels like 90. Well, is the oven on? What is making this house so god damn hot, then?… oh. oh no. Okay, nevermind, my baby maker just got fried.” And then I proceed to X out of the THINX tab and pull up amazon to look for mobile AC units. As my mother did before me and her mother before her and so on.

The female body is a beautifully, terrifying thing; especially during menopause, the week of the Period, and pregnancy. I have,for the first time, very recently, found out there was a separate tube in my cooch other than the general vicinity of my vagina hole. You can tell my parents were the uncomfortable, “we’ll let her ask her friends about it” sort of people. This tube is called the cervix, but I prefer to call it the mini me to my actual lady bits. My Verne Troyer has the ability to “contract,” which means it starts to open up for a whole baby to fit through. A whole baby, Can you believe that! That’s like taking a huge ball of play-dough and trying to shove it through one of those little spaghetti strainers, but without misshaping or turning the baby into a delicious plate of Blue and Pink play-dough alfredo. When I found out about this I swore off pregnancy. How in the world am I going to do what a majority of females have done throughout history? It’s the same mindset I have for college, living, and cooking.

Maybe when I’m in my late thirties and alone like Liz Lemon from 30 Rock, I’ll consider a baby, but, for now, I’m leaving my vagina tight and baby free. I have already tackled the infamous Period and that should give me some confidence to tackling anything else in my life because once you get comfortable with losing blood like a man at war, you should be comfortable with any other obstacle that comes bounding out of your third hole; but baby making is still a stretch. I have made the shift from tween to teen and I’m on a steady track towards young-adult. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to call myself a senior citizen before I turn twenty-five and get a discounted meal at Golden Corral. I might be able to skip menopause and the thought of having a child entirely! Ah, what a dream. But while I’m in my young and fruitful body, I will continue to battle the Period and many monsters like it; such as HPV, the CTA, and not calling my mother first.

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