Flo No Mo

In Celebration of a Life That’s Passed:

Aunt Flo
1981 – 2019
(Good riddance, Bitch)

St. Patrick’s Day, 1981, a glorious day for the onset of menses.

Menarche - MALARKEY!

You may wonder how in the hell I remember the date of my first period - and why I would want to remember it at all. I could lie and fall back on my line, “Writers are the recordkeepers,” but that’s bullshit. I remember because it was a holiday – at least to an 8^th grader looking forward to dressing up all in green for school that day. I guess we really can be suckered into anything at that age; I get it – it made the day different for us thereby encouraging a little more alertness. Any trick will do, with kids.

That day, I wore red, too.

The worst part about it is that I’d been waiting for it.

I blame Judy Blume. Her book, “Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret” was so relatable to young girls that it duped us all into thinking that starting your period was this wondrously awesome milestone with serious street creds if you got it first – if you became a woman first, before all of your friends. She played us. Every 13-year-old wants to be older, and because of Ms. Blume getting your period was your official ID. It meant that no matter when your actual birthday was, you were finally a woman, and your boobs would soon follow.

(Because we didn’t realize then that by wishing to be women we were setting ourselves and our boobs up to be responsible for the thoughts and actions of the rest of the world.)

I was shit out of luck in the street cred department; even if I got it before any of my friends I was already behind because both of my younger sisters got it first. They got their boobs first, too. Back then, they were much cooler than me, being so much worldlier with their need for maxi-pads and bras. Everyone thought they were older than I was. It was humiliating. So what, now that I hit menopause first? “Who’s older now, Kelley-Jo?”

I don’t think that sounds quite as special.

Not that being a woman at age 13 meant anything. So what if you could technically bear children then? No adults liked the idea of us knowing what came first, before bearing them. What did we get out of it? The taunting, “Hey, you got something on the back of your pants!” (unfortunately from other girls, wanting to share their misery) and “Are you on the rag or something?” from the boys. Then the discredit of teachers and housemasters who believed your period was only an excuse to get out of class. Cramps? HA. The majority of the powers-that-had-been did not have the equipment that caused cramps and believed they existed as much as the Easter Bunny did.  And then, when we got older they (not us) were able to blame our irrationality-to-them on ‘that time of the month’.

Yay. I can have kids now. BFHD.

Judy Blume did for menstruation what Walt Disney did for marriage. We anticipated the events with no idea what to expect afterward, thinking it would all be wonderful. I learned to hate everything about it. There was nothing I enjoyed more than those cramps, missing out on swimming, having to wear certain clothing  – and those big, bulky pads that made simple walking difficult (yeah, kid, run a mile in gym class now)! Waking up (as my friend Stephanie would say) with the ‘map of Africa’ on your inner thighs, staining sheets all the way down to the mattresses, ruining your favorite jeans or dress (that is, if they fit right that week). That feeling you couldn’t explain of being out of your head, out of your own skin, the fogginess (or seemingly less clarity). Then there was the embarrassment that this wondrous miracle of the human body could cause; you had to hide it as a shame or be ridiculed about its effects in public.

What fun it was, too, to later be forced to be solely responsible for that wondrous miracle of reproduction.

I enjoy being a girl.

St. Patrick’s Day became the Anniversary of my Curse, and menopause became my new goal.

Aunt Flo was a bitch. You couldn’t always count on her to show up on time, she always overstayed her welcome, and she had the tendency to want to attend every holiday, party, vacation, and wedding.

Okay, okay … so my rack looked nice on my wedding day, but I couldn’t appreciate that while I was worried about my white dress!

I started to like her a little more – or, at least, hate her a little less – six years ago. Signs of senility showed in her inconsistent visits, and I appreciated seeing her less – once I learned not to assume that fewer visits was a sign of something else! But then she started messing with my head. She wouldn’t visit for six months at a time, and just as I was thinking she was gone forever – BAM! – she’d show up unannounced (and totally unprepared for). She brought new gifts, too (I still have those hot flashes to keep me warm).

Her last visit to me came 12 months ago. When I realized a few weeks ago that it’s been a year – as in, she’s officially GONE -  I planned a celebration (seeing as how the timing was so close to St. Patrick’s Day). A Menopause Party. 

A Men-O-Party. With a red and white theme.

I’m not wearing white, because Aunt Flo wasn’t the only reason I didn’t wear it (as this morning’s coffee stain on my white work shirt will attest). The celebratory cake is white, to signify the absence of red (and tongue-in-cheekily baked in a HELLO, KITTY pan). The wine is red, to signify that not everything that flows crimson is negative.

Today, St. Patrick’s Day 2019, I celebrate (as my friend Brenda would say) that the playground will stay open even though the factory is closed.

(I really have colorful friends.)

Today, I forgive Judy Blume. She got people talking about it, and it’s probably better to learn about it with blissfully ignorant anticipation than to be surprised into thinking you were dying when you saw blood for the first time. Plus, it wasn't Ms. Blume that came up with that fucked-up slogan, "Have a Happy Period." (My hormones and I would love to slap that idiot.)

With my painted red nails I use one hand to hold my wine glass up in a toast to Aunt Flo, using the other hand to give her the one-fingered salute to send her on her way.

It’s over, bitch!

Period.