This morning, I informed my husband that I had some weird kind of air bubbles trapped in my stomach that were giving me issues. Do you know how he responded to that? Not with the typical “Okay…?” or “I don’t care” that this type of statement might typically garner, but a “Well, isn’t your period coming soon? Didn’t you just ovulate?”
AGHAST!!!! For one, these were AIR BUBBLES, not cramps. For two, my life does not revolve around my mother badword uterus! Can’t a girl fart without someone bringing up the menstrual cycle??
I’m tired of my megalomaniac uterus thinking she owns me. And it’s time I write her a letter. A letter I think many women with megalomaniac uteri can relate to. It’s time to take a stand, damnit! Take one with me!
(if you’d like to read my letter to my vagina, click here)
We’ve been through thick and thin, have we not? From that very first period, where I am sure you were just as shocked and horrified as I was, to growing and shoving out children- and somehow we’ve made it out the other side in one piece. Or maybe two pieces, but we came out the other side TOGETHER, and that’s what is important, is it not? So then why do you have to be such a raging BITCH?
Honestly, you gave me a hard time during pregnancy where, let’s be honest, I did most of the heavy lifting- yet for some reason unknown to me, still get pissed off every single month that I don’t put another baby in you. What’s the deal? Do you really want to expand to the size of a damn watermelon again? You hated pregnancy more than I did, so why, every month, do you give me a ration of shit? Literally- shit. Period shits. It’s not okay! Shit and cramps and irritability and bloating. It’s not like I want to hold hands and sing Kumbaya (to be real, the thought of you with hands freaks me out) around a campfire- I just want to work as a team. A team that doesn’t hate each other. You make that nearly impossible, uterus.
Am I not thankful enough for your liking that you successfully grew two children? Do I not show my gratitude as often as you think that I should? Do I not bend enough to your random whims? Do I not fulfill your every need, no matter how ridiculous or how many pounds it might attach to my ass and thighs?
When you cramp, I give you chocolate and slam my face with salty potato chips. When you scream and shoot pain through my body, I
shut you the fuck up calm you with medicine. When you cry and ache, I comfort you with heat and occasionally alcohol. When you bloat and need extra room, I wear looser clothes as to not squeeze you and make you uncomfortable. You’ve got it made, uterus!
I think what you don’t realize, oh uterus of mine, is that I don’t really NEED you. You are not vital to my survival. You remain in my body because I allow it, so instead of you thinking my entire world revolves around you and your monthly temper tantrums, perhaps it should be YOU who is bowing down to MY every whim. Remember that next time you think it’s once again come time to drag your chainsaw across my insides, uterus. You shouldn’t be stomping around with your combat boots acting like you own the place when the truth is that I OWN YOU. Keep this shit up and I will CUT you. Out of me, to be exact.
Hugs, kisses, and a boatload of Midol,
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