The Facts of Life

After much debate, I have decided to leave this post up. You have been warned all you males who are completely grossed out by the talk of feminine hygiene products. Proceed at your own risk!!

Let's talk about tampons, shall we? Maybe have a hypothetical tampon story time. I know that the males who read this blog probably just jumped back in pain and are quickly backpeddling on to another boy-friendly page, and I understand. Not all blog posts are created equal and this one is most definitely female-oriented.

So, tampons. Feminine hygiene products. They're great. The story starts when that special time of the month rolls around. And it's just AWESOME. (Nothing like trying to impress the cute guy two desks away by groaning in pain every 5 minutes and breathing really deeply and slowly like you're having contractions.)

But I digress. Tampons. This post is about tampons, not cramps. Cramps happened yesterday. Tampons happened today.

Sometimes tampons suck. Seriously. Especially cheap ones that were given to you by the lady you used to live with whose daughter left them there when she moved out 2 years ago. But you keep them because at the time you're a poor missionary and can't afford expensive tampons. (Why are the good ones so expensive? They're a necessity...like food!) But then you still have them a year later even though you can now afford "nice" tampons, but are too lazy to go out to the store and buy them. Besides, you never ever thought you'd get through the Sam's pack of tampons you bought that one time with your ex-boyfriend just to make his face turn red!

Tampons. So you decide to use these cheap tampons rather than go buy new ones this month. So you're at work and you go to use said cheapo piece of crap and the stupid thing just won't work right. Like it won't stay intact, so that it will, you know, move properly. But you sort of ghetto rig it, so that it will WORK dammit! You will not waste this tampon! So you, ahem, get it where it should be and before you can do a little victory dance, you realize an awful truth. The string is gone.

GONE.

And so now what are you supposed to do? There is now a foreign object lodged in you and no way to get it out. You panic. You start thinging about this one time, in college, when your friends talked about this type of a situation. A situation in which the life line BROKE OFF and there was nothing to do but do the obvious. GET.IT.OUT.

But you're at work and people are constantly coming in out and you can't even relax long enough because there is going to be a tampon stuck in your body forever and you'll never ever have sex and even if you do, oh my god, how will the baby come out? Will I give it TSS? I think my pelvis is inflamed!

So you run out of the bathroom and e-mail one of your OTHER college friends in the hopes that she'll have some kind of advice for you other than the obvious unholy act that you must commit in the work bathroom. But no. This has never happened to her. Great. Now it's just you and the damn tampon.

So you pretend like nothing is wrong and go about working for a few hours.

Refreshed, you go back into the bathroom determined to come out the winner. Deep breath. Calming thoughts. Soothing ideas. You are in control of this situation.

AND YOU ARE THE WINNER. The string didn't break off, but was snuggling with it's good friend, the tampon. Which is bad because it can't serve it's purpose if it's not visible. But you found that sucker and you won. You walk out of the bathroom resolved to do the right thing next month.

Buy a lifetime supply of pads.