Sunday, June 29th, 2008
Shirt, from American Apparel; shorts & shoes, from Ross; tights, from H&M; necklace is my mother’s.
[scene]
It’s a Saturday night at Barnes & Noble. I am sitting in the Sexuality isle, reading an explicit book about how to give the perfect blow job, one leg extended out & the other tucked underneath me. I notice a few people loitering around me, but don’t bother to pay them any attention. After the wanderers clear away, it’s just me & this lanky fellow who is between the age of 20-25. He is standing terribly close to me (or maybe the isles are just small) & I’m starting to think he might need something, because he is pacing about. After a long hesitation, he speaks.
Lanky Fellow: [quietly] Excuse me?
Me: [thinking] Is he talking to me? I hope he’s not talking to me…
Lanky Fellow: [a little louder] Um, excuse me, miss?
Me: [looks up] … yes?
Lanky Fellow: I-I’m sorry to bother you but I just, uh, n-need your advice… if you don’t mind.
Me: [closes book] Okay, sure. How can I help?
Lanky Fellow: Well… I… I’m getting married next week & I was wondering what kind of, uh… books you would recommend for me. Sex books, I mean. You see, it’s my… my first time &… I just need to know some pointers… Would you mind helping me out?
Me: [smiling, to hide my humility] Uh… sure. I mean, I can try. What kind of book are you looking for?
Lanky Fellow: Well… uh, what do you think? I mean… from a women’s perspective, of course, what would you like your… man to… to do, uh, to you… you know what I mean? [clears throat]
Me: [really trying not to giggle, because I don't want to embarrass him] Uh, wow. Um… I don’t know! I mean, you could always go for this book [picks up "Sex for Dummies"] I’m sure this might be informative for you.
Lanky Fellow: [looking crestfallen, almost sad] Oh… I see. You think I’m a dummy… don’t you?
Me: [mortified] Oh no no no! Not at all! That’s not what I meant at all! …
Lanky Fellow: Are you sure? I just… I don’t know about this book…
Me: No no no, I completely understand. I’m sorry. Uh… [pause, trying to collect thoughts] Uh… how about this one? (A book called Urban Tantra) My husband & I [putting a MAJOR stress on the word "husband"] got this book, & we really like it.
Lanky Fellow: [face lights up] Oh yeah? This book is good?
Me: Sure! I mean… I haven’t really read it; my husband has. But he enjoys it so you might like it, as well.
[awkward pause, as he's paging through naked illustrations, hand job techniques & contortionist positions]
Me: Is that book okay? Because I’m sure there are others. You know, I’m not very good with this kind of thing… [thinking, SHIT; How bad did that just sound? I'm not very good with this kind of thing? Oh my god; way to sound like a square. I just made a complete idiot out of myself.]
Lanky Fellow: No no, this is perfect! Thank you so much for all of your help. I really appreciate it.
Me: [still trying to get over the hint of my impotence] Oh sure… sure, no problem! I hope I helped you a little.
Lanky Fellow: Oh you did! Thank you so much. Sorry to bother you!
Me: No trouble at all! … Good luck!
Lanky Fellow waves me off, with a gleam of hope in his eye. & there I sit, in the small Sexuality isle of Barnes & Noble, trying to collect my bearings, while asking myself, Are you serious? Did that really just happen?
These things only happen to me.
Friday, June 27th, 2008
Last night, I picked up my darling little French book again. I find that I’m having to put a hold on my reading after a few pages, simply to contemplate & let it all soak in. This book is just far too important to whiz through, filled with so many goodies & tips that need to be reflected on.
The first section I began to read was about the importance of taking time for even the little things & to try not to multi-task; a habit of mine that has gotten almost out of control. I’m the one who will be sweeping in my underwear, while the showering is warming up, while listening to music & talking on the phone, while the oven is cooking potatoes & the air conditioner is blasting (this is more than true). & when I begin to feel very frazzled & stressed, I stupidly think, “Ugh! Why do I feel so frazzled & stressed?!” Some multitasking can be beneficial for me, but most of the time it’s terribly burdening, not to mention confusing. I burn more dinners & waste more water this way.
The French Girl, however, abhors time & the idea of keeping track of it:
Her notion of time is that of a flâneur — a stroller, one who does not go places with a particular objective or precise schedule, but allows the ambling course of general intentions to guide her into unplanned encounters & special unexpected pleasures. In [the French girl's] world, time is not money. Time is life. … Real life is deep & complex & slowly developed, & it has its roots in fundamental things. And you cannot experience those fundamental things, or true pleasure in life, without taking your time.
The French girl understands that time is immutable & that she, on the other hand, is not. By taking time for herself she’s free to give it back to others.
This is not to say that the French girl has the patience of a monk. She does not. She sometimes drives like a bat out of hell, would park in your kitchen if she could find a space, but when it comes to the essential things in life she does not rush. She does not force today what can get done tomorrow. Time is relative: life is short, memories are long. To all things a season, quite literally.
How positively insightful! I’d like to develop the skills of absentmindedly forgetting about time & just let things flow as they may. Lover always complains that when we go out, I have to have a plan, because I hate wandering around aimlessly. Reading this little section made me think of that & want to fix it so that I can not be so wrapped up with plans, organization & doing it all in one sitting.
& with that, it wraps up with this:
Borrow a Page from the French Girl’s Book: Time
Don’t take short-cuts. Don’t multi-task. Do one thing at a time, completely, in the moment. Remember that time is not money, it’s your life. Let go of the desire to fit everything into one day. Take time for yourself. Invest your time in what is personally relevant & meaningful, because time, in the eternal scheme of things, passes swiftly. (Remember how fast your grew up, how fast your children grow up?) Keep each thing in its place. Work at the office, play at home. Toss the digital watch; go analog.
The next chapter speaks in depth about how the French girl values quality & authenticity. The French girl embodies the principle of quality over quantity, almost effortlessly, like she was born with this kind of thinking. She is conscious of every dress in her closet, every trinket in her lovely home (”things with meaning, things that evoke memories”) & in everything that inhabits her French girl world. Everything in her life has a certain particularity about them, making them precious gems, almost as if they have a soul.
Less is truly more [for the French girl], as long as it’s an expression of quality & authenticity. She resists the expendable, the disposable, the trendy, the faux. She prefers the singular wild flower to the pre-made bouquet. The small car to the big machine. She invariably buys one perfect high-quality dress & not several last satisfying, on-sale ones. And she instinctively knows how to mix & match with natural creativity.
The French girl’s preference for quality over quantity ties directly into her ability to say No: No to excess in people, things or ideas; No to what doesn’t grace her world. Quality over quantity is not just about material things. Who inhabits her world, who feeds her mind, who’s allowed into her private garden? The French Girl would rather spend time alone than with people who simply fill a void.
All of this is something I hope to keep cultivating & unforgettable, for it’s all very true: quality in life is so much more important than more & bigger things. Not just speaking about purses or cars, but people & the relationships you have with them. Because of this, I am proud of my husband being my only best friend & my mother being influencer. I’d rather have those two lovely people than 100 mediocre companions, most definitely.
The next segment I read (which ties into the quality over quantity section) was titled “How to Shop Like a French Girl.” I instantly thought, Oh, do tell! Please tell! Though shortly elaborated, it was the most fun to read because I saw similarities in myself while reflecting on its pages. Not to mention, it’s terribly interesting.
If she [the French girl] can’t afford it, she won’t buy it. If it doesn’t fit (or make her feel good, or flaunt what she’s got), she won’t wear it. If she can’t find it, she won’t compromise. If she loves it, she won’t toss it. She reuses it, rethinks it, lets it age.
When the French girl shops, it isn’t a solitary act of buying something new. It’s a part of a lifelong process of editing her environment, making small but meaningful additions or adjustments to her home, her closet, her life.
When you shop like a French girl, you buy only one of anything — & make sure it’s the best quality you can afford. You know what you want & where to find it (& if you don’t, you’ll learn). You update with accents that are both unique & timeless. You invest in authentic things of quality that will endure & you focus on what’s essential. And when you do find those essential things that work for you, you jump. [If something attracts you in a window, you buy it right then, otherwise you may regret not getting it for the rest of your life.]
While you’re sensitive to the winds of change, you’re not prey to the whims & persuasions of every fad & ad. What’s in or out is less important than what’s YOU: your passions, your personal style.
While reading this, I found myself a bit astonished, because we all know that Paris is one of the biggest fashion capitals of the world. I wondered, You mean… a French girl is surrounded by exquisite trends & breathtaking fashions & she does not succumb to them? She remains true to herself, to her style? She doesn’t have 5 closets full of the must-haves of the seasons, from each collection of different designers? She is… simple??
Of course, this isn’t to say that she doesn’t have a $4,000 purse in her closet; she may even have two! But I think I’ve always had this idea of a French girl being the epitome of stylish, simply because she buys & buys only the luxurious things. But that’s not all together true. & I am thankful to know that, because I was under the impression that I am abnormal because I don’t like to buy very expensive shoes & purses. It truly is more important to acquire, afford, splurge, even collect, things that personally fit my style than what the highest of fashion magazines portray.
I am so grateful to this darling little book. Because it’s more than about being French; it’s about reevaluating your morals & improving your standards. How I wish I were a French girl. I wonder how different I would be if I were born French…
Wednesday, June 25th, 2008
Dress, from long ago; bright blue shoes, from Payless long ago, as well; jewelry, miscellaneous.
This little white dress is my personal piece of history. It has, quite literally, seen every exciting adventure in my life. The very first time I wore it was for a black & white formal party several years ago. I got it on sale, I believe, for ten dollars, which is a steal for such an exquisite dress. I ended up pairing it with some very skinny jeans & white heels (yes; I, too, can’t believe that I actually managed to successfully wear heels all night at a rowdy, drunken party. Amazing.).
That night ended far too soon when a few dozen police came to shut the party down. I was the most sober person there, having only had one wine cooler & a few jell-o shots (I forgot to mention that those were my wilder days), but I certainly shouldn’t have gotten behind the wheel. Regretfully, I was forced to be the designated driver for a few of my friends, because of a misunderstanding of who would be drinking & who wouldn’t. So there I was, trying to back out of a culdesac with 20 cops staring me down, waiting for me to crash into them. I was so full of shame & humiliation, although I can laugh at it now. That was the last time I ever drove while slightly under the influence. Never again, I tell you.
The second adventure in this dress was when I went to see Death Cab for Cutie in concert. Again, I paired The Dress with skinny jeans, flats & a long, brown cardigan. This was two Decembers ago, when Lover & I had first started dating. After our first date, he bought these tickets instantly, after noting that I adored the band. The day after our first date, he told me he scored two tickets to see them in Long Beach. I replied, “Oh, awesome! Well… have a good time & tell me how it is!” not realizing that he had bought them for me. I was very surprised at his random act of kindness, but most surprised that he had actually been paying attention to what I was saying on our first date. Those results are not typical, mind you.
Needless to say, the concert was spectacular & my very first, at that. It was one of the most romantic vacations I’ve ever had with my now-husband. Not to mention, the hotel we stayed in was luxurious. It was a magical night, & in the end, I was very impressed with this fellow who was wooing me with all of his might. I suppose that is why I married him.
Which brings me to the next adventure: our wedding day; or, rather… our wedding night.
I’ve mentioned before that Lover & I eloped to Las Vegas on Christmas night, although it wasn’t really so spur of the moment. We had sat around in our underwear for several hours talking & contemplating on whether or not we should get married that night. After much talk, we felt it was the perfect plan & eventually, we mustered up enough courage to do it. At 6 o’clock that evening, we started to drive to Las Vegas.
Before we left, I told him we should at least try to make ourselves look nice & not so “elopey.” (My mother & father eloped, as well as Lover’s parents; if I’m not correct, they were all married in blue jeans & t-shirts, & I certainly didn’t want that.) I wore The Dress with skinny black jeans, & he wore a white button up shirt with skinny black jeans. We were matching & our pictures turned out splendid because of this.
I had originally planned to wear some very cute white heels with my ensemble, but knowing that I would be driving for three hours straight, I chose to wear something a bit more comfortable: these very bright blue, mesh flats. Being so caught up in the moment & excitement, I forgot to put the other more appropriate shoes on when we arrived at the chapel. Thus, my “something blue” ending up being those shockingly blue flats, which I think is just hilarious. I’m so glad we have a picture of me wearing them.
Naturally, our wedding wasn’t very fancy, but we didn’t want it to be. We had been talking about eloping long before we were even engaged. We didn’t want frills or flowers; we wanted complete focus on our love & romance. We would have rather eloped, than spend money we didn’t have on an exclusive, extravagant wedding. It worked beautifully for us, & we wouldn’t have had it any other way. Our little wedding was absolutely blissful. To try to put that night into understandable words would make the night less meaningful. Our pictures say what I cannot.
& all of this is especially sentimental, because today is a mini-anniversary. We’ve been married for 6 months.
Monday, June 23rd, 2008
I have been reading the saddest story, about a girl who is very lost & wounded & afraid. This girl is confused about who she is & doesn’t know what to do with her life. Most importantly, she is heartbroken from a past relationship & is now on a mission to find love in anything & anyone. She goes through many hard days of depression, panic attacks, & lustful relationships before meeting the man of her dreams (the one who saved her from herself), who is now her husband. & although she has finally found her happy ending, the questions never cease & she still struggles with the reality of who she is now, versus who she was then.
This story is — how shall I say this without sounding utterly pretentious? — my own. & it really is terribly sad.
I don’t know why I continue to do this to myself, when I am well aware that reading old diaries puts me in a dangerous mood. I start feeling sorry for myself (my past self) & begin feeling as though I am having a trippy, out of body experience. Yet… I persistently turn the pages to see what happens next, as if I didn’t already know.
It’s far too easy to get engrossed & involved in my old diaries. While reading, I feel like it truly is a fictional book, about a made up character. I can willingly feel sympathy towards this sad girl, but not identify with her. It keeps me in the past at a safe distance, but not exactly in the past. I am just an onlooker, a passerby, but I am not her. Or, so I tell myself while I am reading. I try to stay far removed from those brutal memories that have been immortalized on paper.
My little red diary is bulging with tales of dead relationships, old wishes & unfulfilled dreams. It is also filled with letters to past lovers that were never sent, letters to myself to try to keep me sane, & letters to my future self to remind me of how far I’ve come. I suppose I am a little obsessed with trying to better myself. Nevertheless, it has kept me somewhat sane.
Thankfully, not everything in this journal — the feelings, mainly — remains true; I was terribly depressed & anxious then. But, I must say that there was one entry that struck me, simply because it’s still quite accurate, in the midst of it being written over 2 years ago. I’d like to share it here.
June 14, 2006 - Wednesday
I have many secrets. And part of my daily routine is trying to hold onto them the best way I can. Revealing nothing keeps everything in a safe place. If no one knows the important things about you, then surely they cannot find your weaknesses, the things that make you upset, the things that give you pleasure. Even the good things are dangerous. I refuse to let anyone in. It’s becoming quite lonely. Nonetheless, it’s a perfect strategy.
No matter how perfect, I still find it hard to maintain this frame of mind. The mysteriousness, the “leaving some to the imagination.” I’m not an introvert; I really am quite the social butterfly. And sometimes I get so excited & out of place at one question of inquiry, that I lose my train of thought & I say too much. Because questions [to me] are rare. The genuine concerning curiosity of another doesn’t exist without an ulterior motive. This I know. I know when I’ve said too much & I kick myself for days because I feel as though I let someone in, too close, too soon. For as much as I know it true, I refuse to wear my heart on my sleeve. At least, to the outsiders & so-called friends. I don’t want to be like those stupid girls, who speak of their drama loosely. I want to be the strong, silent type; the one no one can crack. And if I shall find “The One” to do the job [to crack me], he shall be privileged, honored & grateful.
My secrets are precious. My soul is sacred. I feel like everything about me is a gift. God made it so. I am a temple; not just my body, but my spirit & mind. No one can enter freely. And only a select few on the Earth ever will. Mark my words. I take pride in this stature, however arrogant it sounds. Leave most stones unturned, for you & everyone else, so that life will have much meaning.
This is the one thing I adore about myself. —- E.
This diary has been abandoned. I haven’t written in it since September of last year; I will probably never touch this diary again. It’s quite frustrating because it’s not the writing that I’ve neglected — obviously, I have found this little nook on the internet to keep as my own space — but it’s the red diary itself. It goes deeper than it being out of style; it’s about having emotionally let myself go from it. No longer needing to rely on this book to cry into.
I’ve found other means to express my discontentment, my happiness, my worries & frustrations. I paint now. I speak to my husband directly, or I write him letters. Most importantly, I deal with these emotions within myself, or, rather, I am trying to learn how to do this. Because I don’t want to need a diary or an outlet. I want to be strong enough, wise enough & confident enough to resolve it within myself, without the help of an object or a someone. I truly think that I have outgrown my old diaries… & as much as that hurts, I feel that something needs to be done about it.
Drastically, I’m considering burning them all.
Friday, June 20th, 2008
It has been disgustingly hot outside all week. Hot, actually, isn’t the word for it. The correct word be baking. Yes, it is baking outside, as if all of Southern California was put into a preheated oven & God is waiting for us to turn into gingerbread men. It really is like this. I desperately need to get out of this house — I have things to do; we need food in the pantry, for heaven’s sake! — but with it being so damned hot, it’s hard to even muster up enough courage to open the window, let alone walk to the mailbox. Even poor Sofie doesn’t want to stray from her comfortable corner in the coolest place in the room.
Needless to say, it’s been very uneventful in my neck of the woods — in my neck of the sun, rather — & I haven’t had a reason to dress up. I spend most of my time lying around in my underwear & skimpy shirts, fanning myself with a magazine, impatiently waiting for the sun to go down. & when I do go out, I am wearing as less clothes as possible, not caring if I look fashionable. Surely, if I do happen to melt in this heat, I’d rather do it in mediocre clothes than my good ones.
Today, I decided to dress up as if I were going somewhere & as if the weather was the perfect degree. I really tried to make believe that I had somewhere special to go, without trying to look like I gave a damn; that sort-of incognito, ” Get out of my way, I’m on a mission,” kind of look. I feel don’t know if I achieved that, sans makeup & bad bed-head hair. But it was nice to take some pretty photos.
I tried to do something a bit different, & make use of some very neglected arm warmers I got from a co-worker. She thought she was buying leggings & was distraught when she saw that they had thumb holes instead. She gave them to me, because she said, “Only you could pull this off. I would look ridiculous!” That was several months ago, & this is the first time I’ve attempted to try them out. I am still very unsure about them (& after a few pictures, I took them off & decided against them). I’ve never worn arm warmers; I’ve never been interested in them, really. But I rarely pass on something free & I hold onto them only for “just in case” purposes. If only I could count how many times I threw out clothes that were seemingly out of style & then overnight, it came back in style & I was sorrowful because I didn’t have them anymore.
vest/dress thing, from Angl; black dress (which is x-small maternity, if you can believe it), from a yardsale; shoes, from Ross; necklace, from forever21; arm warmers were a gift.
Wednesday, June 18th, 2008
Dear Diary:
My husband, the exceptional stud that he is, bought me a vibrator today. It was completely random & almost out of the question, but I willingly accepted his gift. He said to me “You’re a woman now, Ev’Yan; the time has come.” & my first thought was, What would my mother think? He went on to say that if he waited around for me to get one for myself, it wouldn’t ever happen. So, he views this as though he did me a favor, but I am thinking that he may have ulterior motives.
I don’t know quite how I feel about my new pulsating friend; I have never used a vibrator, nor have I ever wanted one (though, I’ve been curious about them in the past). I consider myself a fairly good girl & a sex toy has always been a no-no to me. But… it is a gift & it would be terribly rude if I didn’t accept his gift. Not to mention, it’s a lovely shade of pink. This should be interesting.
Stimulated & surprised,
apricot.
Wednesday, June 18th, 2008
My childhood dog, named Dakota, died. My sister called me yesterday & gave me the news. I wasn’t very surprised because I knew that his health was deteriorating; he could no longer hear & his bones & muscles were very weak. But still, the news struck me, much more than I’d like to admit. When I had last seen Dakota, I tried to not look at him because I knew that he was dying & it pained me to see him looking so old. I began to think, Soon we all will be old; all of this will be gone. There will be nothing & no one left. My father will die, my mother will die, my sister will die. I will be old & decrepit someday & Lover will be, too. Everything will be gone. Naturally, these thoughts get me so worked up that I don’t like to acknowledge their existence.
Obviously, I try not to think about death or even admit to myself that it is inevitable. I don’t like being confronted with harsh realities. It’s easier to lie, I think, about the complicated things that plague your mind; the things that can’t be answered to easily. Like religion or battered relationships or what it means to be alive, but death is especially hard for me to grasp. I have never handled death in the right way; whatever “the right way” is.
The first funeral I ever went to was when I was 8 years old. I may have been younger, but I can’t remember. It was a close family friend’s son that had passed away from a heart condition; he was only 4 years old, at least. It was an open-casket funeral & the first time I had seen a dead body in real life. I remember my mother whispering to me & my sister, as we clutched onto her, absolutely awestruck, “See, baby, it looks like he’s sleeping, doesn’t it?” Even at that age, I was trying to grasp the concept of Death. To get through that day, I remember telling myself that he was only sleeping, like my mother had said, & that all of this was just a big lie somehow. I’ve been doing that ever since.
When my grandfather died, though, I think that is when I started to realize that this way of thinking wasn’t exactly practical. Because it was obvious that he was gone. Denying that was now very silly to me. I remember “Taps” playing as they buried him in a veteran’s memorial (he served in the Coast Guard). Marines had come out specifically to do salutes, to fold the flag, to escort people inside & out. If that isn’t the epitome of death, tragedy & sadness, I don’t know what is. It was so raw & the mourning was practically tangible. My grandfather’s funeral kept me far away from my own comfortable, “this is all just a dream” kind of La La Land. I knew that I couldn’t remain wrapped up in my twisted thoughts of denial any longer & I remember feeling guilty for not thoroughly acknowledging my his death. As though maybe I was cheating him, somehow.
Now, I am faced with the same cringing emotions & fears, surrounding my dead dog, which makes me think that I still don’t really know how to comprehend death. Even last night, I found myself thinking, It’s not real; Dakota’s just sleeping in a hole, buried underground. He is only sleeping. As an adult, I think this! So it’s very apparent: I don’t think I’ll ever be good at understanding death. I don’t know if death is supposed to be understood, just like life isn’t supposed to be understood. Maybe to understand life (& death) is to devalue it.
Maybe death should be viewed, for me, as brave & peaceful contentment. Dakota’s death signifies the past, my past, being completely gone now. There is nothing left to hold onto, nothing to keep me dwelling in the past anymore. Our close knit family is now completely separated. We are all in different places emotionally. We have all moved on. We will never be the way we were again. We all shared Dakota & loved him as a family. Now that he is gone, there are no ties that bind us together anymore. In a sense, we are [I am] free. & a little relieved.
(The outfit: shirt, Hanes; shorts & shoes, Ross; necklace, my mother’s jewelry box.)
Monday, June 16th, 2008
I’ve been in an unusual mood all week. Most importantly & seriously, I haven’t been able to write. It seems as though I can’t compose anything without thinking about it so perpetually that it scares me away. I am in a rut (quarter life crisis, maybe?) & it’s that icky, insatiable “in the middle” feeling. It’s wretched. I don’t feel like myself. Even as I’m writing this now, it’s like pulling eye teeth. I don’t have it in me, but I want it so badly. Writing is my vice & because I haven’t been doing much of it — & I mean, real writing; none of this “Ooo, look what I’m wearing today!” bullshit — I feel strangely out of my own loop. Weird… but true.
I could take time to blame my mood on the obvious things around me (the ridiculous price of the gas, the depleting of the ozone layer, the poor polars bears being in danger, even!) just so I can neglect the obvious & save my own pride, but that’s not right. The real reason I am such a mess right now is because of… my menstrual cycle. Yes, the Curse of the Month, the stereotypical mood enhancer (or killer, whoever you’d like to look at it) is causing me to be a little out of my mind. I truly hate to complain about this because I am very tired of women using that as an excuse to justify their bitchiness (”Honey, I’m sorry I smacked you with that spatula, but it’s my PMS; you understand, don’t you?”) & I certainly don’t want to be like that. But I don’t want to deny my loathing in regards to this. What I’m simply trying to say is that I hate this Time of the Month.
For the record, I don’t think this whole bleeding out once a month thing is quite fair. I also don’t understand why some women say that their periods are a breeze: “Oh, your periods are bad? Well, isn’t that too bad! Mine aren’t at all! They’re so simple! They’re so easy! All I do is insert a tampon & in a few days, the bleeding just magically disappears! Isn’t that simply wonderful?!” I want to slap these women. It’s not that I don’t believe them; maybe their bodies aren’t as possessed with the Red Devil as mine or anyone else’s, but it’s highly unlikely. I think those women are in denial. Matter of fact, I think some women tell themselves that their periods are no big deal to them, just so they can exhibit some sort of control. Maybe they might do it because they want men to know that it doesn’t get to them like that & they’re not going to be the stereotypical female who wants to go around slapping people with spatulas. Maybe it’s borderline feministic. I don’t know; I’m truly pulling straws here, but whatever the reason, it’s ludicrous.
Personally speaking, my little body handles the Time of the Month with as much strength as the Spartans did in the battle against the Persians; hoping for the best, expecting the worst & ready to fight to the death, while still maintaining a bit of dignity. It really is like this; ask any woman & I’m sure they’ll compare it to a battle scene. A bloody battle scene, at that. (Which makes me wonder how hemophobics handle this occurrence. Poor dears.)
First, there are the cramps; that is the first tell-tale sign that something terrible is about it happen. The feeling of this is like being poked with 100 forks, but at different speeds & at different angles. & right as the cramps/poking is starting to subside, there follows a rumble, almost like a spasm, that goes through every nerve in your body. You know something is going on down there, so you take a gander & see the first sight of blood in your underwear. & so the battle begins.
It’s a battle of epic proportions, every single month. The cravings of food are so horrendous that it’s a wonder that you haven’t eaten yourself out of house or home. First, you crave chocolate. You must have it; you MUST! Or you shall die! (That is what your body is seemingly telling you.) So you get some chocolate & you gorge yourself into a sweet coma. Afterward, your body is now whispering loudly in your ear, “Salt! I must have salt now! Something salty or you shall die!!!” Back to the pantry you go, where you pick up a bag of pretzels. After nearly polishing off half of the bag, it’s back to craving sweets again. Back & forth, this goes on for a few days. Never relenting, never ceasing. While you’re endlessly craving, you are also staying away from things that usually turn you on. You love peanut butter, but the sight, taste, smell (especially the smell) makes you want to gag. (I’ve often heard menstruation compared as a mini-pregnancy. I can’t agree nor disagree with this, because I’ve never been pregnant.)
The cramps, of course, are prevalent. But then you must endure eye-gouging headaches; so bad that you feel like blood may be draining from your brain down to your uterus. You feel fatigued & worn down, as if you’ve run a 25 mile marathon. & then, there is the gigantic zit that seems to find itself right in the middle of your forehead… or at the tip of your nose, or the side of your face, throbbing & bulging. Another humiliating sign of the Time of the Month. So while pretzel crumbs & chocolate stains litter your clothing, you now have to deal with a migraine, unquenched sleepiness & a gigantic pimple. Not to mention, those cramps are now starting to make your belly, full of salt & sugar, a bit queasy.
& then there is the emotional stage. You cry because the dog stepped on your foot. You cry because the cellphone commercial reminds you of your sister. You cry because the stoplight just turned red & you wanted to make the light, dammit! You cry because there’s nothing to eat in the house (either being that you’ve eaten it all or you’ve just shunned the things that make you feel gross). You cry because your lover yelled at you, when he was really just calling you from the other room. You cry because none of your clothes fit. You cry because you burned your finger. You cry & weep & sob & fuss. Equally, you do the same when you’re mad. You curse the dog, you curse the television for incessant commercials, you curse the motherfucking stoplight for fucking changing when you were fucking trying to get home!!! One would think that a little self-control could tame these evil spirits attacking your inner being; maybe make you a little more aware of the words coming out of your mouth, or the reactions you are exhibiting. But it goes well beyond taming. It’s truly a possession. The possession of the Red Devil.
Now, of course… I’m being a little dramatic. But really, these symptoms, exaggerated or not, are enough to make even the calmest person about ready to do something drastic & unnecessary. Like kicking a tree, or throwing food if it happens to burn accidentally, or curse the shower for pouring out cold water, as though its the shower’s fault that you failed to turn the dial to “H.” Or even better… hitting your spouse with a spatula. (I keep going back to this because it’s in the maddening moments that I seem to think of a spatula as the appropriate kind of weapon.)
I will say this, though: once it’s all said & done, once the week has finally passed, there is nothing left to do but breathe a sigh of relief & thank God that you made it through another possession of the Red Devil. You may even promise that you will try to handle it better next time (the key word being “try” because we’re never really prepared). Knowing that you made it through the hellish Time of the Month leaves you feeling clean, literally, & you can go on with your life as a normal, sane, feminine individual & try to erase the cursing, the crying, the yelling, the overreacting, the craving, the irritating & aggravating week completely from your memory.
[Please note that many of these things were exaggerated to the fullest extent to make a dramatic point on my part. I am not suggesting that every menstrual cycle is like this, nor am I suggesting that every woman is like this. Also... I think I may have cured my writer's block.]