Believe it or not, there are some things that I don't think are appropriate to talk about. I will leave a room full of women if the topic of "regular" experiences come up. We all have them. We know all there is to know about them, what is there to talk about? But somewhere along the way someone (most likely of the peeing standing up variety) has capitalized on our "necessities" and now we have commercials. Commercials selling us things we have to have. Enticing us to purchase items we can not reasonably live without. Flowered, dainty, "feminine" little boxes hidden under the bathroom sinks of female America. Boxes just blatently displayed in nearly every purchasing outlet across the nation. Let me just say this: We know what we need. We know where to find them. We don't care what color the box is, or the name printed on it, or even how much they cost. They are required. We will NOT live without them. If they were banned by the FDA we would scour every alley, abandoned house, or bridge club to purchase them illegally. There would be single moms juuuuusssstt outside the school zones selling them from the backs of their minivans. "Psst, come here. I got wings. I got supers. There's plastic and there's cardboard. I got what you need Mrs. Johnson".
Perhaps I'm odd. I will drag myself out of the house in sweatpants, mismatched shoes, no bra, and a baseball cap to get what I have to have. However, once I'm in the store, I'm overwhelmed by the awkwardness of the situation. I will buy $200 worth of shit to hide that one little damn box. God forbid someone know my "visitor" is here. I check out as quickly as possible and disappear into bloaty slightly water-retentive air. Again a victim of the "cursed" propaganda.
We have different names for these happenings-all trying to say what we don't want to say, but feel it necessary for you to know. We all do it, it's no secret, and we have a code-even another language entirely. So for future reference, if I ever tell you I'm not swimming today because "I've got company"; my visitor is not a 5'3" brunette named Mother Nature holding a shiny wrapped "gift". My company is a 300 pound black bitch carrying a Louisville Slugger with about a hundred 4" wood screws screwed into it. Period.