Kelly H. • Indiana • 23
A cold, January morning I woke up to find that I was no longer just some childish 8th-grader, I WAS WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR. Armed with a rural public school health education and the advice of American Girl Doll's "The Care and Keeping of You", I knew I needed pads and STAT. Naturally, my mom only kept massive tampons and baby panty liners (and nothing in between) in the bathroom closet. My family's morning routine did not account for any deviation and it took me until half way through the car ride to school to make my move.
In a very flippant and matter-of-fact tone, I told my mom that we needed to go the grocery store because I got my period (cue absolutely zero eye contact as I pretended I had this totally under control and was NOT embarrassed/excited/nervous/all of the emotions). We marched inwards towards the feminine product selection, where my mom walked a fine line of trying to suggest sanitary pads and checking her watch, an apt analogy of our strained relationship if there ever was one. I arrived at gym class that day late with a variety pack of pads in tow.
For the next few months, I would routinely stain various seating objects and jeans until I learned how to use my mother's stash of jumbo-super-plus tampons (and to this day, I still scoff at the cutesy, petite tampons that I have never used and only kept in my apartment to offer to others so they do not judge the lifeboat-sized ones I use).
