Are you there, God? It’s us, Her Campus…
Picture this: you’re at the ripe age of 11 years old, standing in the dressing room of the ever-trendy, ever-coveted Limited Too. Feeling as mature as you could possibly be after reading American Girl Doll’s “The Care and Keeping of You” – albeit its ability to make you question all bodily functions – you stare into the “skinny” mirror, looking desperately into the reflection: is there anything that can make these grow?
But until then, your only choice is evident: that quintessential, mass-produced cami with a built-in training-bra and a box of Kleenex. As the tissues dwindle, your false confidence soars. Come Monday. You’ll look just like Brittany, the 8th grade bimbo your perpetual crush craves. Britt, the babe, might be feeling great up there, but down there, she, umm, well, isn’t as confident as she was while wearing her “big-girl” purchase in the Limited Too.
The b word: boobs…boobs…blood. Blood? BLOOD! And, yes, just like the baby in that viral YouTube video said, “It’s noooot funny.” According to KidsHealth.org, the average girl gets her period at 12 years old (key word being average). And as the American Girl Dolls in their uncomfortable illustrations teach us, everyone’s body change at different times, awkwardly invoking the ominous words of “puberty” and “development” far too frequently. But we all went through it. We found the hair in weird places, we tried desperately to tuck in body fat with a size-too-small cami that you, again, forced your mother to buy, and we made the transition to deodorant a little too late to admit at our present age. Nonetheless, you are currently a deodorant-wearing, bra-wearing, hip-swaying woman (notice the change in diction), who left her cami in the past…with what she thought was discomfort never to haunt her again. In taking a note from our Dolls, we’re here to make you feel all kinds of uncomfortable. So let’s get down to business.
As a collegiette, you’ve gotten accustomed to your “time of the month.” Whether you regulate with a form of birth control or your average array of hormones, you are well versed in “riding the crimson wave.” So what’s our point in being here? Like we said–fill in a PMS sigh of aggravation here–we want to talk about it. What was once a desperately desired token of womanhood, which was prayed for while simultaneously pulling down your pants, the sight of blood has transitioned from a Six Flags thrill of maturation to a sentiment that is often uttered as “well, fuck.” Or on the contrary, a Saturday Night Fever inspired dance on the third floor bathroom of the library: “thank god.” Well, cheers to avoiding college pregnancy. Whether or not the tween hope for a mere drop of blood survives–considering your sexual activity–there is a variety of emotions, contemplations, and did we mention emotions, that a collegiette experiences at the appearance of her good friend Flo.
- You’ve been experiencing shooting lower abdomen pains, which our little Doll friends call “cramps” (like that’s comforting) for days. Your stomach has ballooned without reason. And consequently, you can’t fit into your favorite jeans or even your fat jeans. You’re pissed. You want to fight. You want to cry. You want to cry. Did we mention, you want to cry? You want to eat. Chocolate, anything, correction…anything chocolate. Catch the drift? Welcome to PMS-nation. Population: 1 and no one wants to join you.
- Pulling down your pants, the drop of blood that once marked your womanhood now stares you back in the hormonally-imbalanced, acne-covered face, smirking. Your thoughts mirror a stark dichotomy: you’re either pumped to know you’re a woman…that’s not carrying a fetus…and you think something along the lines of utmost positivity: no need to think of baby names or at least I know my body’s working. If you’re of the negative type, which is understandable in these circumstances, you’re angry and likely, tampon-less. Your thoughts follow a trajectory of oh shit… I ruined my favorite pair of Hanky Pankys… not that I’ll be having any fun in them…but I guess…shit, where’s that tampon?
- So now what? You’re lying in bed watching Netflix on Netflix on Netflix. Because what else is there to do? What else can soothe your mind and body simultaneously? And as you binge-watch “Friends” on your computer, you can only hope that the knock on the door is the cute boy that you’ve been crushing on since your “Awkward Dinner” during Orientation bringing you a “Period Mix” just as Ashton Kutcher did in “No Strings Attached.” But unfortunately it’s not. So you sit there and “keep bleeding, keep, keep bleeding love.”
- Tampon in. Tampon out. Because whether you went to an all-girls camp for too many summers of rumors and sex stories, or just plainly have spoken to a peer, you greatly fear the Toxic Shock Syndrome that lurks behind every pastel colored Playtex Sport. Not to mention, a lot like when you discovered the difference between full-fledged panties– a term your grandmother and all lingerie saleswoman delicately use–and thongs with So-Lows, once you go ’pon you never go back…to pads. No thank you, Always, I do not want to wear a diaper at the promising age of 20.
- And we’re onto day four…five…six…and CAN YOU JUST GO AWAY NOW? Your week of binge eating excuses and mood swings, culminating in a plethora of laundry needing your mom’s magical stain remover has lasted too long. But not to worry, although that’s impossible during this “time of the month,” because it only lasts a certain amount of days. Day seven and you’re usually in the clear…. until next month. But, let’s remember ladies, nothing feels quite as good as–no, not how skinny feels; thanks Kate Moss–but the look of underwear without your red friend.
Officially passed your Judy Blume-r stage and moved on to bigger and better things like the adventure that is a super tampon to help with that “heavy flow and wide-set vagina,” you’re currently thinking what is the point of this article? Quite honestly, we’re not so sure. What we do know, however, is that these feelings are pretty much as universal as a collegiette’s love for Netflix re-runs and merit recognition in a humorous manner. Because if you can’t laugh with sinners then you’ll bleed with the saints…okay, wait, that’s not the saying. But c’mon, laugh a little to add to that cramping abdomen already. And well, if we’ve made you uncomfortable–cough, cough, male readers–then our job here is done. Nothing’s really comfortable about this situation anyway.
So are you there, God…we’re not sure as we’re still bleeding, bleeding…love?
HCXO,
Her Campus Bucknell