Carolyn W. • Alabama • 54
In my fifth grade class, all the girls passed around a book called Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. It’s about a sixth grader who tries to deal with, among other things, being the last in her group of friends to start her period. It is a great work of literature which, in my opinion, should be required reading for all patriotic Americans and if you have not read it yet, get started.
Anyhow, as I progressed through middle school, I identified more and more with poor Margaret until finally, shortly after I turned 14, I couldn’t take it anymore and announced loudly to the lunch table that I had FINALLY STARTED MY PERIOD!! Everyone was very excited for me and asked lots of probing questions which I answered so convincingly that I began to believe the whole thing myself. Afterwards, though, I felt a little let down, knowing that when (if?) it actually happened I wouldn’t be able to share the REAL event with my friends without exposing my lie, and besides, the actual story would probably turn out to be much better than the one I had made up.
That school year came and went without any sign of my period, but preparations for a family trip to the UK kept me from obsessing about it too much. We flew to London and then rented a car, planning to sightsee in England and Scotland. The trip was going great and we were all having a fantastic time driving along ancient back roads together UNTIL MY PERIOD STARTED FOR REAL THIS TIME IN THE BACK SEAT OF A RENTAL CAR. I’m sure you saw that coming a mile away, which makes you much more prepared for it than I was, in the back seat of a rental car, in a foreign country, with absolutely no “lady-time” supplies or any idea how to get them or what to do with them if I had them. I grabbed my younger sister’s arm and began silently trying to communicate my despair. Now, you may be very good at charades, I don’t know. Most likely, you would have no trouble with the phrase ‘OH MY GOD I JUST STARTED MY PERIOD’. Not me. I am what charades experts like you call “not good”. So it wasn’t exactly a huge surprise that my sister was unable to interpret my frantic crotch-oriented hand gestures.
“Whaaat....Crotch! Something....your crotch is burning? It’s...OK YES, I SEE YOUR CROTCH. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” I was so intent on making her understand SOMETHING, GOD, ANYTHING that I failed to notice that my mother had turned herself around in her seat and was staring at me. She demanded to know Just What In The Hell Was Going On Back There, and by this time I was so desperate that I just blurted it all out. A very quiet blurt, though, so Daddy wouldn’t hear. Wouldn’t that have just been the worst? Yes, definitely! So, naturally, my mom turned immediately to my dad and proceeded to, dramatically and with much sighing, inform him (HIM, MY FATHER, A MALE PERSON) of my condition. I could feel my hands clenching, my face burning, my eyes rolling back, back, BAAAACK into my head...WAIT! Was that my dad giving me a sympathetic glance in the rearview mirror? An ally! That little nod brought me back to my senses and gave me the strength to make it to our bed and breakfast without killing anyone.
After my sister and I were settled in our room, my dad knocked on the door and told me, without establishing eye contact, that he was headed into town to get some “supplies” for me. At that moment I experienced every emotion ever experienced by everyone ever: gratefulness for my dad’s compassion, anger at my mom’s indifference, camaraderie with everyone who had ever been through this “special time”, the throbbing embarrassment which we’ve already discussed, excitement (?), pride (?!?)...
My dad returned with a lifetime supply of every different kind of feminine hygiene product ever manufactured. He also had some hilarious stories to tell, starting with an awkward encounter with the inn’s manager when he asked for directions to the nearest drug store. “Drugs?” the man asked. “You want to buy drugs?” Daddy was trying to explain the situation without having to say point blank that his daughter had started her period when the manager’s young assistant whispered, “He wants the Chemist, sir.” My dad was not at all sure that “the Chemist” was the thing that he wanted, but he had no choice but to take their advice. Of course when he arrived at “the Chemist” he discovered that, yes, this was in fact the place he needed to be, and he walked up and down the aisles confidently until he realized that he had no idea what he was looking for, although he did vaguely remember from those embarrassing lady commercials that there was something called “pads” that might come in handy. He marched back and forth across the store searching for these “pads”. THE PADS! WHERE ARE THE PADS?! Finally, a young male employee offered his assistance. My dad looked him straight in the eye and said “Well, I’m actually looking for the...um...pads.” The young man began looking around nervously for his coworkers. Many painfully awkward seconds later, a woman took my dad by the arm and walked him down the aisle. She took a package off the shelf and said “We call them towels here, sir.” TOWELS. My father was so relieved to have found this bilingual lady-time expert that he followed her around the store and bought everything she recommended.
So, my dad saved the day, I got over myself, and overall the trip was a great success. I really enjoyed being with my family, making memories and inside jokes “to last a lifetime” as they say. I’m sure this one particular memory will last a lifetime. It’s made it this far anyway. And even though I can never share this first period story with my 9th grade lunch table buddies, I can share it with you and Margaret, and we can all have a good long laugh.
