As you may or may not recall, last month, upon the suggestions of friends, I decided to “take control” of my period. NO, I didn’t go out and buy some super absorbency tampons and adult diapers and wait for my insides to drop out- I downloaded a handy dandy little period-tracking app so that NO LONGER would I sit idly by waiting for the hammer to drop… only… it never did when I thought it would, so i’d panic about the content of my uterus. NO LONGER!
“There’s an app for that”?- why yes, there most certainly is!
I punched in all of my info and what popped up? “Guess what? You’re going to ovulate on Valentine’s Day!”
What was that? Oh, just the sound of my vagina recoiling in fear.
So I did what any woman who has gotten pregnant during the same time of year with both children (one unexpectedly)- I broke out the titanium chastity belt and SWORE I wouldn’t be having sex on or around Valentine’s Day. Not now, not ever.
All thanks to my handy dandy pocket bloodhound. How I loved it so! It SAVED me from impregnation that otherwise my uterus would have attempted unbeknownst to me.
Well, wouldn’t you know it, I was double-crossed. Done wrong! Lied to! I should have expected that there is no formidable opponent to the cuntiness that are my lady parts. It’s never been what one might call ‘predictable’ before- how can a phone app be expected to compete, and compete well? My menstrual cycle is mysterious, angry and elusive- much like Bigfoot, the Lochness Monster, or Jimmy Hoffa’s body.
Along comes the day where Pocket Bloodhound claims I should be hemorrhaging from my nethers… and nothing. Dry as a bone.
What did this mean? No… it doesn’t mean i’m pregnant- HELLO, titanium chastity belt- it means the app is WRONG, which means the ovulation date it gave me was wrong…
Which essentially means that dumb little piece of software sent me into panic mode and pooped all over obligatory V-Day sex for nothing!
Isn’t that thing supposed to be like the Ovary Whisperer?
Here I thought all of my period based issues and paranoia would magically be solved, but NO, not even a helpful little reminder that says “oh hey, that bloating your experiencing? that’s not the pound of lo mein you eat, it’s your uterus getting ready to explode.. oh, and by the way, you might want to stock up on tampons. And Morphine. And Liquor”
Once something starts fucking around with the amount of sex I can actually force myself to stay awake for- it gets on my shit list.
And people wonder why I have trust issues!
To answer the question i’m so sure is on your mind here at the tail end of this … enlightening blog- No, I will likely never have the sex on Valentine’s Day again- I have now been scarred for life and we all know who, or what, is to blame.
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