TMI* warning: This is a literally drippy "female issues" post. You have been forewarned.
I'm approaching 54, but apparently my body still wants to menstruate about once a year. And what I've noticed in these past few years is that Aunt Flo is a total trickster about when she decides to show up.
A couple of years ago, for example, she showed up very unexpectedly while I was on a Greyhound bus from coastal California to Tucson, about a 10-hour ride -- the first leg of a journey helping my birthmom move to the Northwest. The one saving grace was that I had some ancient, though frighteningly limited, emergency supplies in my purse. It was a serious challenge. The Greyhound I was on was in terrible shape. (Sadly, they are no longer the luxurious "Scenicruisers" of years past.) The bathroom was basically a port-a-potty with no soap, water, paper towels, or toilet paper. Plus, the bathroom door was broken and held together with duct tape. Ancient, stained, cruddy-edged duct tape . Anyone using the bathroom had to ask others to keep the door closed for them, because it generally swung loose on those duct-taped hinges. The entire bus sloshed and smelled like a port-a-potty. Worse: None of the bus stations we stopped at (until nearly Phoenix) had any towels or TP in their bathrooms either (although at least there was water flowing through the faucets). Two hours into this particular ride was when my body started having the mother of all periods. On the way to be with my blood mother -- so I suppose it was quite fitting. I was a grimy, bloody mess when I finally made it to Tucson. But I made it.
Then there was last night. I went to Holy Thursday Mass at 6:00 pm.. Our church encourages people to host in-home potluck dinners after these masses as a way to communally commemorate the Last Supper. I have never participated in these after-mass dinners before, but for some reason, I decided to do so this year. I had signed up to be a guest at an older couple's home with four others, and I was to bring the hors-d'ouevres. Aunt Flo arrived early enough in the day for me to be relatively prepared -- although I did consider calling in sick because I was feeling so whuped (and,again, Flo was totally unexpected). Alas, I talked myself into going, and, wouldn't you know it, as soon as I sat down at church things got to really . . . FLOWING. Of course: it's all about the Body and Blood, right? I began to worry if I'd brought enough supplies in my purse to last the entire evening, and was grateful for black pants. But oh, the potluck. This lovely meal of three hours was held in a swanky, gated-community home ... very clean and pristine, with all white and pastel furniture & carpet. The dining room chair I sat in was fucking velvety-plush-SNOW-WHITE. I kept getting up to make sure I wasn't starting to leak. I used the guest bathroom at least twice, and one time ended up dripping blood in several spots (look, people, I told you this was TMI*) in the cleanest, fluffiest, whitest, Eastery-ish lavatory I've ever set foot in -- decorative white bunnies and yellow chicks peaking at my blood-dripping body from all angles -- sending me into warp-drive cleaning mode . . . Cold water gets blood stains out of pale plush things, but you gotta act FAST.
To quell my nerves, I sipped a tad more of the copiously offered red wine than I'm accustomed to drinking in the later evening and came home with a splitting headache. A hangover BEFORE falling asleep. My half-snoozing husband, bottle of Excedrin, and multicolored, dingy-sheeted bed were sights for my sore eyes and cradles for my bloodmooning body.
I'm not complaining too much. This all seems to be stirring some writerly juices, at least.
