When
my lady friends and I are gal pal-ing around, sipping on wine in the same room
or via Snapchat, three distinct topics of conversation always come up: the
state of Turkey’s borders now that it has opened them to Syrian refugees; the
disproportionate burden of student loan debt on minorities; and bOy PrObLeMz.
Recently,
a series of unfortunate events caused being on the rag* to
be brought up in conjunction with the third subject. Questions like, “What
doesn’t he get?” and “You’re almost 30, is this a new thing for you?” and “IS
IT REALLY THAT HARD?!” were tossed around haphazardly, and I realized that, as
a whole, men and/or boys really don’t know anything about the inner workings of
women.
None of them.
At all.
To be honest, the above
questions deserve an answer. If a guy is of millennial age, he has been around
ladies and their Aunt Flo* for roughly 15
years. While we understand that it’s not happening to you and that you’d rather
not discuss it, it’s going to occur monthly for the next 20-30 years, and there
are some facets of the occasion that we are owed understanding of. If you shy
away from reading this post because you’re uncomfortable talking about vaginas,
you should not be anywhere near one and your manliness is absolutely in
question. Go back to training camp and let Captain Li Shang make a man out of
you, Mulan: you are not done.
You think it’s all just Tampax
and Midol? Think again.
I think it goes without saying
that excessive bitchiness (like, bitchier than a girl’s normal bitchiness)
should never, ever be met with, “That
time of the month, huh?” Expect a flurry of disgusted eye rolls, “Wowww”’s, and
almost definitely a few tears if you choose to utter The Forbidden Phrase. Did
you think that was going to help things? Did you think the knives stabbing our
abdomens were suddenly going to cease because you pointed out what the hell was
going on down there? Please tell me that you would react with serene
rationality if your insides were suddenly rejecting the wall of justice they
had built up over the past 30 days so I can call you a liar. Pro tip: if you
think what’s happening is happening, keep it to yourself. Should even a hint of
inference, assumption, or deduction in reference to my attitude or my body enter
the conversation, you will be verbally abused, and as one friend put it, “know that
I probably meant it but maybe not how it came out.” Maybe.
Have you ever been around a girl
who you guessed was riding the crimson wave* and
watched her devour an entire Cinnapie from Papa J’s? Did you say something? I
hope you didn’t fucking say something. We’re not just having a bad day or
feeling like a pig, we’re doing both
of those things simultaneously. My stomach was flat yesterday and now I appear
to be two months pregnant (sweet irony), so as you can imagine, pointing out my
current situation will truly be the icing on the cake….chocolate cake…with
cookie dough bites baked inside….and butter pecan ice cream….and a vat of hot
fudge. Yessss. You wanna be helpful?
Don’t suggest we go to a salad place for dinner, because I’m eating for my
ovaries and they could not be less interested in vegetables this week. Let’s
get some meatball subs and you can not look in my direction while I shove it in
my mouth in three bites.
Some twisted individual placed
the idea in men’s heads that when we’re curled in a ball on the edge of the
couch wearing size XXL sweatpants and clutching ourselves, we want to be “massaged”
and “held” and “touched in any way.” Ew, freak, get the fuck off of me. This
isn’t a charley horse that can be shiatsu’d away in a few minutes; it’s my body
literally hosting a rebellion against potential children. If your hand comes
near any part of my body with plans to rub me, I’ll break it and continue
watching Gilmore Girls like it was nothing. Real talk. If you feel the need to
comfort me, employ the Claw and Retract Method: one gentle hug and then immediately let
go. It should last no longer than two seconds to correspond with my current
level of patience, and it should not put pressure on any part of me that could
result in more pain. The more pain I have, the more pain you have, remember
that.
Here’s the part that caused the
most uproar amongst the girls: period sex. Women don’t want to be talked to or
touched for the majority of the duration of Leak Week*, but they want it bad. Badder than Usher, even. At
any other time, a guy would be all over this, but mention the potential for a
little untidiness and suddenly all bets are off. Let me get this straight: we actually want to do
all of those things that you want to do the other 98% of the day, and we want
to do them five minutes ago, now, and tomorrow, and you won’t because it could
get messy?
Furthermore, if you are seduced
by our admittedly aggressive demands, don’t you dare swallow your balls back
into your body upon first glimpse of some red on the sheets. If Bloody Mary* shows up unexpectedly and it’s a surprise
to the whole room that some stainage has occurred, we can split the trauma
60/40 (this is worse for me, trust). However, if you were warned and were all, “No
biggie,” and then flip out when there is a bullseye on the bed, making a show
out of disgustedly tearing everything apart and saying something like, “Ugh,
that’ll never come out” or “Gross!” is the opposite of me wanting to do it
again. Now I’m lightweight embarrassed for the both of us: me, because obviously, and you because apparently I’ve
been dating a 13-year-old who probably still laughs at Uranus jokes. Actually,
both of those are embarrassing for me. God invented towels and OxiClean for a
reason, you big baby—meet me upstairs in two.
Referring to my *PERIOD by
anything other than my *PERIOD makes it sound awful and makes me feel like more
of a disgusting troll than I already do, *PERIOD. Any lingo that has become
synonymous with a woman’s *PERIOD was obviously invented by a man, because a
woman already knows how shitty it feels to bleed out their insides and they
would never bring brash language into the mix. Blood is exiting the vagina
because the uterus is shedding the lining that the eggs, produced by the
ovaries, were waiting to be fertilized in. That’s your daily dose of accurate
terminology, straight up. If you want to refer to any of that by anything else
(except for "menstruation" because not even we like that), don’t. If you’re disconcerted
by medically descriptive language, put your penis on a shelf and only take it
back down when you’ve grown the testicles you need to use that thing properly.
Finally, the ladies and I
request a thank you. If we are not trying to have a baby together, and we take
it upon ourselves to regularly make sure that it doesn’t happen, we want that
to be acknowledged (Ex: “High five for not getting pregnant out of wedlock
because that’s not really your life plan, girl. Appreciate you stepping up”). If
we yell at you for no reason because our hormones are out of whack, but then
apologize and recognize our illogical outburst, we want that act of valor to be
appreciated. If we have zero energy, ache, can’t wear anything but yoga pants,
and are breaking out like a before picture in a ProActiv commercial, and you
ask us to go out and meet up with a few of your friends at some bar that may or
may not be filled with hipsters and not the fun kind, and we squeeze into jeans
and a cute top and execute winged eyeliner, throw a salute. I don’t want to be
there, but I’m faking it, and I’m faking it for you.
If you considered yourself a connoisseur
of the female reproductive system before reading this, I hope you now realize
that you were not, in any capacity. Feeling like a big shot because you only
slightly flinched when buying a box of tampons (and not even the right ones) in
the self-checkout line (because what if they think they’re for you?!) is nothing
to brag about, and I don’t admire you for it. Hopefully you’ve been enlightened
to our actual needs during this
trying time. Now leave me with my jar of peanut butter and my spoon and get
lost.
