After 32 and a half years on this planet, over 20 of which I have spent being plagued with that which we all call THE PERIOD- you’d think I’d be used to it. You’d think I would know what evil tricks my uterus has up her tubes. That I’d see them coming from a mile..er….month away, and be prepared. I should know my period like the back of my hand! There should be no surprises. I should be a professor of periods! A master of the menstrual cycle! Ruler of the rag! Governor of “girl time”! Taskmasker of tampons!
In other words, my period shouldn’t be able to come out of left field and bitch slap me like an inexperienced twit. Yet, somehow, it does. And it did again yesterday.
Now, before you start furiously typing in the comments section that you’re on the most amazing birth control to ever exist that not only got rid of your cramps and blood flow, but makes you queef gold flakes that you can collect and make into amazing uterine jewelry- No. The answer is no. I’m happy for your odd fortune- but no. Birth control and I will never be simpatico. I will deal with the periods, for it is either that, or death. ALRIGHT, I’M BEING DRAMATIC, but I can’t do birth control.
Let’s get back to the story, shall we? For I need to know that I’m not the only one being made a fool of by their period. I need to know I’m not the only one with the Regina George of uteri. I’M BEING PERSONALLY VICTIMIZED!
Of all the days in the year, my period decided to arrive unexpectedly on Father’s Day. What a joy! To give my husband the ultimate gift of NOT being a father again (trust me, wasn’t looking to get knocked up, but waking up to my uterus falling out isn’t exactly a wonderful gift for anyone in the general vicinity). This wasn’t a terrible period, though. Achy, sure- but nothing I couldn’t handle. And then lunch. Delicious lunch. Celebratory Father’s Day lunch- and it was as we finished up lunch (and before you ask, no, I didn’t eat that much- yay for self-control!) that I realized something was not right. I wasn’t full, yet… I was. Only, not with food.
I guess my uterus decided to throw an absolute hissy-fit since I wouldn’t fill it with a baby and it had gotten my insides all prepared and everything, and just tore the nursery apart. TORE IT APART. Tore it apart and then set off a bomb.
I’ve managed to come to terms with the sore boobs, the cramping, the feeling like my vagina is literally going to fall out of my body, the dreaded period poops and swamp ass, the “must eat everything that contains salt in my entire house!”, the moodiness, the “busted can of biscuits” midsection that plagues me for at least 2 weeks out of every month. I’ve done it! I’ve lived with it! I’ve even managed not to complain for the most part- but being inflated like an enormous beachball with the hot farts is TOO MUCH! It’s living in fear that one wrong move and you will blast your family away with the sheer power of your ass.
Only the Regina George of the uterus world would make me crave all the food in the world, but blow me up with air so I can’t eat anything. “Stop trying to make dinner happen. It’s not gonna happen.”
We spent the latter half of the day at Busch Gardens and I lived in fear of getting to the top of a coaster and blasting us off the tracks with my ass Final Destination Style. Nothing. Not even a squeak. I kept hoping for relief- to make squeeze out an angry fart here or there, but the longer the night continued, and the rounder I became, I realized I was in it for the long haul. Uterus realizes I am becoming of “advanced maternal age” and knows it only has so long to make all of its baby dreams come true. Uterus is angry I have taken away yet another one of its fleeting opportunities. Uterus is out for revenge.
All the way to bed time, I kept having to rub my stomach- poking at it, pressing on it. It just wasn’t going down. And honestly, after two kids and some lovely experiences with hemorrhoids thanks to giving birth, I’m afraid to sit down on the pot to try to force a fart out. It’s more likely I’d push out a punching bag than an angry uterus fart.
After washing my face, and getting changed, I left the bathroom in utter defeat. I took that moment to warn my husband- look, if you wake up in the middle of the night and catch me flapping around the room like an untied balloon, it’s because I’ve finally been released from my punishment. I certainly didn’t want him calling a frickin’ exorcist because he thinks seeing me on the ceiling means I’m possessed by a demon.
No, honey, just my evil uterus.
Considering the fact that I woke up in my bed, I’m going to assume my butt didn’t take me for a joyride while I was sleeping. Currently wondering if my husband had fart-related nightmares because the fart-bloat is a thing of the past and I’ve never been so happy to have the period poops again in my life.
So tell me ladies- has your uterus ever been so mad you didn’t fill it with a baby that it filled you with gas??
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