This is the first month since coming off of birth control since I’ve had a cycle. I was expecting a doozy with cramps galore (she was a Bond girl, wasn’t she?), and a royal gush that rivaled the Red Sea at high tide. Any of you with endometriosis know what I’m talking about. The cycles are up and down month to month, sometimes week to week; but one thing is constant, there is always some sort of pain. At least for those of us who have symptomatic endometriosis.
Anyways, on to my cycle.
Day 1 was like implant bleeding of early pregnancy. No big deal. Actually, it was a really big deal. It meant that I wasn’t pregnant so my wonderful friend and neighbor celebrated by running to Starbucks and buying me a Pumpkin Spice Latte.
Day 2 was like, um wherediditgo? There was nothing. No cause to wear a plug or a pillow in my panties. Shoot, I could have worn a white dress sans skivvies and been fine. It was alarming enough for me to take a pregnancy test, which thankfully I failed. Or passed, however you look at it. Point is, I’m not pregnant. Thank God.
Day 3 was like woah. I woke up and my belly was perfectly flat like days of old. I figured the hot Zumba the night before had sweated all of my bloat away, so I admired my belly in the mirror for at least 8 minutes that morning. Thirty minutes later, I looked 7 months pregnant and I was flying through the air on a fire hydrant of fluid. It was like sitting on a red geyser.
My friend wanted to go see Jack Johnson last night (Day 3). The person she was supposed to go with was out of town for the evening on business, and she couldn’t find anybody else to go with, so she asked me. And I went.
Here’s where it gets kinda over the top, so if you had a hard time with the first 269 words, you might want to turn around and go back to wherever you came from for this last bit.
Usually Days 2 – 4, I feel like someone rammed a 4″ steel rod between my legs and had a hay day with it. Like someone was trying to re-plumb every square block of New York City right inside my vagina.
This Day three was no exception to that rule.
My friend wanted to wait in a line the length of the building for a Jack Johnson shirt. All I wanted to do was to go sit on an icicle. I was swaying in line to try to relieve some of the pain but it was hard to think about anything other than the millions of dollars worth of plumbing being installed inside my love canal. When we finally sat down, I almost passed out from the pleasure-inducing pressure in my nether regions. It is one of those hurts so good things, you know?
Jack came on and sang a few songs – just him and his acoustic. It was awesome. People were swaying, my vagina wasn’t throbbing to the beat, and I was happy. Then he did it. He busted out the electric guitar and told people to stand up.
Know what, Jack? I liked you before that. Now I think you’re a twat. Or rather, that’s all I could think about for the rest of your show because mine was throbbing along with your bass line.
I have no other way to describe this intense feeling other than my vagina wanted to turn itself inside out like a sea cucumber does when it’s scared. I was afraid I was going to be walking around Durham Performing Arts Center, dragging my vagina behind me. Luckily, the sea cucumber kept itself contained.
Hey Jack, Thanks for the quick break between your regular show and SURPRISE! encore. My banana pancakes needed that break more than you’ll ever know.