Getting It
In grade 6, all we talked about was "getting it". Speculation
on the pending doom / glory / wisdom / horror of the bridge into
"womanhood" was the most visceral thing in our lives. We were
in a competitive race to menstruate.
They had started giving weekly lectures on chastity under the
guise of liberal sex education classes. We were split into two
groups, boys and girls, sent to different classrooms and given
an hour of the most agonizingly delicious information a 10 year
old can conceive of: "Why you should never touch the opposite
sex."
The boys learned (and we learned vicariously during recess)
that their penises would soon transform into towers of strength
and manhood. They were educated about wet dreams, which I'm sure
most of them were already having by the dozens. They were enlightened
about sperm and ejaculation. At length, they were prepared by
their uncomfortable male math teacher for the joys of sex.
We girls, on the other hand, learned about menstruation. Our
Family Studies teacher took her apron off to show us an endless
series of slides depicting the 28 day feminine cycle. She imparted
her womanly experience with cramps, pain, bloating and, ominously,
pregnancy. She showed us unopened packages of tampons and pads.
We were left wondering what the treasure inside those packages
could possibly look like. Diapers, we speculated but did not dare
say so out loud.
We came to understand that getting our periods, which none of
us had managed yet, was the death knell of our childhood. We were
told that once our periods came, we would be at risk of conceiving
babies and VD (though it was not made clear exactly how that would
happen or when), but most impressive, that we would also be considered
"women".
As a result of the gap in knowledge bequeathed to us via the
embarrassed half-information of health classes, our minds, our
entire beings and our twice daily recess gossip were completely
overtaken with period talk. We called it being "on the rag" though
didn't understand why it would called such a strange thing. We
exchanged horror stories of girls who got their periods during
class and had to perform the walk of shame, skirts bloodied for
everyone to see, to the nurse's office. Of course, we had never
seen anything like it happen but the stories filtered down through
the grades and were embraced by our huge appetite for the subject.
My greatest personal interest was in the texture of menstrual
blood. Would it watery, bright red blood like when I accidentally
stapled my thumb? Would it be thick and dark, semi-clotted blood
like the oozings after ripping a mosquito bite scab off for the
second time?
After giving it some thought, though completely unsupported
by research or facts, I informed my peers that I suspected it
would be much like raw hamburger meat. You can't imagine the horrific
picture I built up in my, and everyone else's, minds. The most
horrible of all possible bloods. We made a pact that the first
of us to "get it" would collect her first sample in a plastic
sandwich bag to show the rest.
What morbid little monsters we were.
Between the end of our grade six health classes and the winter
of grade 8 I lived in a personal hell demarcated by daily fear
and paranoia. At the end of each class, I would crane my neck
awkwardly to glimpse at the back of my skirt. Unable to get a
good view, I would ask my friend Jennifer to check for me. Was
I covered in blood? I whispered. I was sure I felt a little "funny"
down there. But every day came the same answer, "Nothing there."
Eventually, I began to suspect that I wasn't cut out for womanhood.
Others of our group had gotten it long before me, but it seemed
as soon as they crossed their bridge all promises of sample collection
disappeared from their minds. No one who had it, wanted
to talk about it. As a result, I still didn't know what
to expect.
One day, in the girls' washroom, I pulled my underpants down
to find a streak of dark brown across the cotton gusset of my
pink panties. I flushed with confusion and rage. It seemed to
me that I must have messed myself somehow. Clueless, I scrubbed
at it with shredding toiled paper strips. Gross.
The streaks continued over the next 2 days and then disappeared.
I deduced that it wasn't a wiping issue since it was happening
every time I went visited the washroom, but I couldn't think what
it possibly could be otherwise. I strongly suspected
the early onset of incontinence as depicted in those commercials
on TV with seniors putting happily on golf courses.
How a girl so obsessed with "getting it" could have missed the
meaning behind these recurrent stains, I don't know. In defense
of my thickheadedness I can only suggest that I couldn't have
known a girl's first period is often extremely light and unworthy
of the horror stories imparted in health classes.
The next month, the streaks were back. This time, when I wiped,
the tissue came away choked with bright red blood. A-ha! I clued
in immediately. I had finally gotten it! Thrill filled me. I was
among the chosen ones, the keepers of the secrets. I never once
considered collecting a sample.
With the dignity and aplomb of a Red Cross orderly in wartime,
I bandaged my "wound" with a half roll of toilet paper and sat
through my geography class with a paranoid slant to my eye. Who
knew about this? Everyone suspected, surely. Was it going to soak
through my skirt and humiliate me in front of everyone? Almost
assuredly. I tried to prevent it by sitting on my hands, by crossing
my legs, by keeping as much of my bottom off the seat as possible.
To this day, a map of Africa puts a knot of fear in my stomach
and causes me to lift my bum off my seat in fear and loathing.
At home, I called my Mum at work. This seemed the thing to do.
"Mum? I think I got it." I whispered urgently into the handset.
Her reply was a confused, "What?"
"It. You know. My period." I was nearly dancing in
place I was so anxious, excited and somehow filthy feeling.
"No you didn't." she said with a stern, "don't mess me about"
tone to her voice.
"Yeah, I think so."
"What makes you think so?"
"There's a mess." Why did I have to prove it? Shouldn't a woman's
word be good enough? I thought loftily.
"Oh." There was a moment of defeated silence. "Well, you'd better
go the variety store then. Ask the lady at the counter to show
you where the maxi pads are. Get some change from your Dad's dresser
and buy some. Make sure they're beltless, though."
"Beltless?"
"That's right. You don't want the belt kind, believe me."
So off I went. Not 4 hours a woman and already on a mission
to purchase a BOX OF PADS, the contents of which were still a
mystery to me. Half of me couldn't wait to get them home and find
out what the hell was inside that pink and white box anyway. I
imagined it to be something edible, cotton candy like, though
I knew that was absurd. Still, it would have been nice. The other
half really would have preferred to go swimming.
At the store, I wandered the aisles covertly. I knew exactly
where the pads where, of course. As IF I hadn't skulked in that
aisle once or twice during course of my getting it obsession!
And anyway, there was no need to be dragging the kindly Korean
lady who ran the place into my sordid little life episode, was
there? I fingered the bags of chips for a while, glancing over
the aisles to mark the distance I'd have to make. 3 aisles over,
Feminine Hygiene. I moved subtly over to the school supplies.
I flipped through a 3 Subject Cahier and threw it back down as
though unsatisfied with the quality. I shuffled discreetly over
to the household detergents. Everything seemed in order. I moved
again (almost there now!) past the hard candy aisle. I pickup
up a candy lipstick and a ring pop and looked sneakily at the
lady on cash. She must have thought I was shoplifting. Feeling
watched, I also grabbed two pixie stix, took a deep breath and
scuttled over to the pads.
Ohmygodohmygod. Calm down for chrissake. Breathe! The boxes
were a blur of pink and white and blue and yellow. I couldn't
focus. The presence of tampons confused things and I couldn't
tell where they stopped and pads began. I didn't want to touch
anything until I knew what I wanted. Ohgod.
Just as I was reaching my hand out to select the pink box that
clearly said "No Belt!" on the front, the door opened. The sound
of laughter and jocular ribbing filled the little store. Philip
and Jeff, my classmates, had entered and were even now walking
over to the candy aisle. Caught! Red faced and without an alibi.
I ducked.
Crouching there, I thought back to the time I had peed on this
very floor when I was a kid. The nostalgic innocence of peeing
on a variety store floor swept over me and I remember thinking
how I'd rather urinate in front of those boys than get caught
buying feminine hygiene products.
Who knows how long I would have sat there on my petrified haunches
if fate hadn't intervened. I'd been submerged so long that the
cashier finally decided to come see what the hell I was up to,
probably sure I was pocketing pads for resale on the black market.
But on her way over to me, striding with purpose, she caught Philip
and Jeff trying to steal a dirty magazine and her attention was
diverted completely.
Oh thank you! Oh bless you, you smut minded boys! As they were
lectured, I broke for the door empty handed and burning with shame.
As an adult, I have learned to buy condoms, gloves, flavored
oils and even sex toys without the slightest hint of embarrassment.
These things are nothing to me. But every time I purchase pads
or tampons, I blush madly while the cashier rings them through.
I can't get hold of my strangeness. I am forever scanning the
doors for the ghosts of Philip and Jeff. Even now, I swamp my
purchase with other items in an attempt to convince them (who?)
that feminine hygiene is really nothing to me. A distant third
in importance from household cleanliness and the edicts of this
month's Cosmo.
Frankly, the only thing that keeps me sane and above the monthly
stress of purchasing this stuff is the sharp and clear note of
pride that goes along with it.
I got it.
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