“Misfit” is Apropros

WARNING: The following blog post is in answer to the Daily Post’s prompt from yesterday, “Island of Misfit Posts.” It concerns a topic that I normally wouldn’t talk about on my blog (or even in public, for that matter). It’s about feminine hygiene products, which everyone here should be mature enough to handle. Also, it contains neither images of bodily functions nor gratuitous descriptions thereof. It’s actually not even close to offensive, in my book. However, just in case you’re squeamish and unable to hear words like “tampon” or “menstruation” without doing something childish, please do not read on. Thanks.

I couldn’t bring myself to write a blog post yesterday. I was just too upset. It appears that Tampax has discontinued the product that I use during that time of the month. For many people, this probably wouldn’t be a problem, but since hitting puberty, I’ve tried many different types of tampons, and only one in 17 years did what it promised.

Over the last couple of years, I’d noticed that it was getting harder and harder to find the familiar pink and blue box. At first the big box retailers stopped selling it, and gradually it disappeared from the shelves at all of the drugstores, until just CVS had it. The only CVS in my area is about a 15 minute drive away, so I’d time my monthly trip to coincide with check cashing at the bank across the street, or maybe heading to a movie at the cute little theater just another 5 minutes’ drive from the CVS shopping center.

This month, I put it off a little longer – there was no other reason to head in that direction. But eventually I had to go, and so I stopped in yesterday after a trip to the gym. Just try to look inconspicuous in sweaty workout gear on the feminine hygiene aisle; it’s pretty much impossible. Now imagine standing there for about 20 minutes, desperately scanning each and every product just in case you somehow managed to overlook the product you so desperately need.

As if going to pick up “sanitary supplies” isn’t punishment enough.

I finally gave up, and went home to scour online sources. One website was selling a box of 40 for $38. Amazon had them for $20, but I just can’t bring myself to pay that much for a bunch of cotton and some cardboard tubes. It’s just maddening. I’m generally mad at the world right now.

So I’m moving on. I’ve decided to try the Diva Cup. It’s silicone, reusable, and people seem to love it. And with a little luck, I might never have to buy another period-related product for the rest of my life. Now wouldn’t that just be grand?

Hate Face

Here’s something you don’t know about me, loyal readers: I seldom have any of the symptoms that go along with PMS. Sure, I sometimes feel a tad bloated during that time of the month, but in general I’m a lucky lady – no cramps, headaches, mood swings, or any of the rest of painful and/or pesky symptoms that plague so many women every 28 days.

It’s all a trade off, though. While most months are just peachy, a few times a year I do have PMS. Major PMS. Sometimes this can mean intense cramping, but that’s maybe once a year. The other times? The other times I’m just angry. Like, “HULK ANGRY!” angry. I’ve been known to call it my hate face.

What sucks (or is cool, depending on how you look at it) is that I’m so seldom really in a bad mood that it can take me a while to figure out what exactly is going on. Like today I woke up, did a little bit of work, and by midday realized that pretty much everything I was reading on social media or hearing come out of my coworkers’ mouths was in some way frustrating or idiotic. Which does not compute when it comes to my coworkers, who are all great guys with fun ideas and witty personalities. By 3pm, after watching a video made by a dear friend and realizing that without a doubt I thought it was the most shitty, stupid thing I had ever watched in my life and where the hell did she get the idea that it was even useful to let other people in on her ridiculous thought process? it finally hit me that oh yes, I was wearing the hate face. Big time.

So I left work at 5pm, arriving home about 3 hours earlier than normal. The Man wisely assessed the situation (could it have been the electric charge crackling about my head? the smoke steaming from my ears? the demon horns?) and left me alone. I’m on the couch, drinking my second glass of wine, about to curl up and watch an episode of Lost Girl and attempt to zone the eff out before hate face gets the best of me.