We all could use some levity this week. And I’m on my period! So, let’s talk about all the little ways that time of the month totally fucks you up.

Food. Last year, I had some severe inflammation in my right ear, and everything sounded like I was in a pool for a month. My doctor prescribed me some Prednisone (read: steroids) for a week to get it under control. For that week, food was a euphoric paradise. Everything tasted amazing. Everything. I remember standing in my kitchen, staring at a single Nacho Cheese Dorito, and marveling at the complex science that went in to making what was surely the snack food of the Gods. Was that chemically-produced artificial cheese dust coating my fingertips, or LSD-laced fairy dust from a Day-Glo sprite? It didn’t matter. It was divine.

Being on your period is kind of like that. For one whole week, food is the cause of and answer to all of your problems. And you Never. Get. Full. This last week, I ate so many Tostitos I actually created a sore on the roof of my mouth from the salt. Then, I ate a bag of Gardettos. Because salt, motherfuckers. 

Yesterday, my husband texted me, “I just got a notice for a free Bloomin’ Onion from Outback! Want to go?” My immediate response was, “I’d eat your face right now if they deep-fried it and served it with that Bloomin’ Onion sauce.”

“So… Yes?”

Clothing. “Why do you have so many pairs of jeans?? Who could possibly need all of these jeans??”

Women can fluctuate 5-10 pounds while they’re on their periods. This means some shit won’t fit. It won’t. And, yet, walking around naked with just a tampon string hanging out continues to be frowned upon. So we need to make sure we have other shit that will fit on hand. Which means we have to have a lot of shit. In various sizes. It’s a neccessity. Back on off me. And bring me another bag of Sour Cream and Onion chips.

Dogs. Every single dog that I come into contact with (which is quite a few, as we have a very family-friendly neighborhood, and I have two children who are dog magnets) immediately shoves his/her nose directly up my crotch. And they keep it there.

They never covered that in sex ed.

And I get it. Dogs have incredibly olfactory senses, so they probably freak the hell out, thinking they smell a goddamn t-bone in there. It must be exciting.

But here’s what the nose-all-up-in-my-hootenanny seems to say to me: HEY! HEY, OWNER PERSON! GUESS WHAT? I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT’S GOING IN THIS LADY’S COIN PURSE! YEAH. YEAH, THINGS ARE *INSANE* UP IN THERE. OH, GOD, IT’S ALL OVER THE PLACE! HOLD ON. I’LL TAKE ANOTHER GOOD SNIFF JUST TO CHECK ON HER! OH, GOD, SHE MIGHT BE DYING! HEY, LADY, ARE YOU DYING? HEY! DON’T PUSH ME AWAY. I’M JUST TRYING TO HELP! OWNER PERSON, I’M WORRIED THAT SHE MIGHT BE GETTING LIGHT HEADED FROM THE BLOOD LOSS. I’D BETTER SHOVE MY NOSE FURTHER UP HER COOTCH TO HELP PROP HER UP! I’M HELPING!

Smell. Dogs aside, I will say for the record that I’ve never actually smelled another woman on her period. At least, not consciously. But my close girlfriends and I have all confessed to one another that we have all noticed a distinct change in our personal aromas around that time of the month. This period side-effect has me feeling a little ambivalent, actually. I’m more fascinated and intrigued than disgusted by my own personal egg-dropping bouquet. My bathroom trashcan smells like plague-riddled death, but me? Is that a hint of musk I detect? Fascinating choice this month, hormones. I’m like a little science experiment! Yay for me!

Horniness. I know some women who get crazy horny during their periods. Which is fine. We’re all adults, with small children, and we have to take sexy time whenever we can get it, so period sex is not really as gross as we all feared it would be back in high school. It’s the horniness factor that I can’t seem to control. My period puts me on two different settings: Mother Theresa, or Samantha from Sex in the City. I will either melt your clothes off you with the passionate heat of a thousand horny suns. Or I’ll turn on Parks and Rec and remind you to bring up a glass of milk to go with the bag of Oreos I’ve stashed in my sock drawer. 

It’s called balance.

No. No, it’s not. It’s called imbalance. Schizophrenia. Uncertainty. Annoyance. 

Period.

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