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It Is Like the Universe WANTS Me to Talk About My Vagina.


These are my thoughts, yo.

It Is Like the Universe WANTS Me to Talk About My Vagina.

jasmine banks


Warning! This post is a mostly true tale about that time I got my period last week. Turn away NOW if you have a queasy stomach... and if you don't think Captain Picard is the shit. People like you just don't even deserve to occupy any space on this here Picard lovin' blog! *You've been warned!*

This blog is no stranger to banter about my vagina. Yes. I just wrote that line.

I've talked about vagina pain during pregnancy.

Having PCOS and a wonky vagina

and how having a vagina can change the world.

After I wrote the entry about how I was going to have to have all sorts of unsavory things done to the ole' female gonads, I endeavored to accept that this was what I would have to do. Surgery. Slice and dice 'em, Doc. I'll accept it. Furthermore I resigned myself to taking Provera for 10 days out of the year to force my body to shed my uterine lining.... meh meh meh something about avoiding cancer meh meh meh.

I was NOT excited about this prospect. Me and the hormonal birth control/hormonal anything are like rival gangs, except we don't do drive by shootings... we just cry uncontrollably at Elmo then quickly spin into a rage because OHMYGAWDWHYCAN'TANYONEINTHEWORLDDOANYTHINGRIGHT.  Like that time I took the Depo Provera shot and Johnny Depp was all, "we need to schedule an intervention because this bitch is getting emo and  WEIRD!"

I know, right?!

So I was all, "sure give me the chemical poison because I am phobic of getting cancer because my brother died from cancer."  *Sidenote* Why in God's green Earth do doctors insist on "encouraging" their patients to take medication with the whole, "annnd you don't want to get cancer line." For reals, y'all. Cannot handle the whole cancer emotional appeal while in the stirrups with my cervix all  hanging out! *End Sidenote*

I scheduled the appointment for the pelvic wand of joy so that Dr. Thompson could see my dysfunctional ladies parts and then we'd go from there. Imagine my surprise when I start spotting. This is what ensued:

Me: "Tiny baby Jesus. I don't pray these days, but I am making an exception for THIS situation. Dear Lord most magnificent, if you PLEASE with your special Jew powers make this spotting NOT be implantation bleeding. I will go back to church. I will stop sympathizing with those atheist heathens and fly right. I'll even listen to Point of Grace again! Toby Mac? MAC POWELL! Jesus! I swear I will stop using foul language! Okay. Now that is a total lie... but you know I'll do my best to at least not say that one "F" word around the homeschoolers. It really was only twice without a condom and I swear I will never have sex in the minivan again. That was wrong. So wrong!"

My prayer of "Please Don't Let This Pregnancy Test Be Positive" rambled on inside my head as I waited for the results.  Moments later I read "not pregnant" on the overpriced pee stick.

Phew! My relief shifted the energy in the room. "But wait!" I paused, "If I am not pregnant why am I bleeding?!" I called the OB and he pondered the same query. His answer: "Who knows?! Maybe you are going to finally have a period."

Pft. Silly being with a penis. THIS uterus doesn't do periods. Those are so Garden of Eden. I've evolved. The doc and I resolved to keep the pelvic ultrasound appointment and go through with mind altering psycho drug... Until the next day.

The next day I woke up with what can only be described as a Quentin Tarantino scene in my delicates. After assessing with the doctor that I did not have an exploded ovary and I was not quickly bleeding to my death, we surmised that I had finally become a woman. I was receiving "The Monthly Visit". Like some kind of twist of prayer/miracle irony I was now bleeding and no longer in need of Provera. It was as if whole body was all, "Nah. We remember how you were on Provera! Lets go ahead and avoid that with a deluge style menses."

Have I driven that point home? What I am trying to explain, people, is that I was bewildered, bleeding like a stuck pig, and missing any kind of products that most ladies would use for their time of the month.  I quickly  showered and took care of hygiene business, then scanned the house for instruments in which to Macgyver something to stop the oh so frightening Nightmare on Elmstreet  action that was happening in the yonder parts. No luck. Macgyver was a genius, fashioning bombs out of paper clips, a gum wrapper, and toilet cleaner and I, sadly, could not even harness the power of folded toilet paper. This. was. that. kind of gush.

About the time I resigned myself to lay still and flat on my back until Garrett arrived home to retrieve pads and tampons, I realized I had pads leftover from my birthkit (read: box full of items for homebirth including one GIANT sized pad designed for afterbirth trappings).

I was saved!  I made it to the store. Got the necessities and schlepped myself over to spend time with two of my most amazing friends. They looked at me with pity and giggled at my rookie mistake: wearing jeans on the first day of your period. I curled up on the couch with Raspberry tea, and birthday chocolate from my beloved Betony. I shuffled back and forth from the bathroom with whimpers and groans and complained of lower back pain. We painted Henna on Victoria's belly which holds the 4th member who is bound to appear at any moment.

We talked about how pulling over and having sex on the side of the road is fun- but COULD lead to a pregnancy scare and an awkward pseudo prayer, and we celebrated having a tiny slice time for each other.



Vic and Bet, two of the best people to be around when stuff is falling out of your vagina, loved on me and laughed at me, like the best kind of friends.



And that people, is the story of how I got my period.