I burned a pair of undies today.
Like a Sophie Ellis-Bextor song, it was murder on the dance floor.
If the floor was actually the crotch of a Victoria’s Secret, Union-Jack-emblazoned thong. Heartbreaking.
I must say, still getting your period at age 34 when you are well over the the idea of ever having more kids is just a bit shit. It’s kind of like when you buy something from a fancy store and they add you to the mailing list, even though you’ll never go back there again, because f*ck-me that was expensive, yet they continue to taunt you with fresh new mailers every month, for things you will never be able to buy again.
Well, maybe it’s not exactly like that. At least the mailer doesn’t ruin your thong.
Between my daughter and I, we were going through boxes of tampons a month. I once sent James out to buy me a top up and he came back with a pack of 40. I stared at the giant box and suddenly wished they were cigarettes.
One of the things I hate about tampons is the strings (Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean).
It just adds insult to injury (at an already un-sexy time) when you realise you look like a parachute with a loose pull cord.
So I decided I had had enough. Onto the magical internet where you can buy anything, and after several very (very) strange searches, I bought myself a moon cup.
These are small silicon cup that you pop all up in your bits, and can safely leave for about 8 hours. No strings attached.
But they can be a bit tricky sometimes. Like, they don’t always sit quite right. And you have to be really comfortable sticking half a hand up your vagina to make sure the thing is sealing off your entire cervix. Once I got it stuck. You wouldn’t think there were many places for it to go, but it just seemed to be moving further and further towards the light. (I really don’t know what the light would represent in this horrible word picture I am painting for you). Anyway, I realised I had a snail-on-fish-tank-glass kind of situation going on, and I needed help.
I waddled uncomfortably up stairs to find James.
I’ll just stop you right here and say, I have married the most unflappable (haha, no pun intended but it totally works in this instance) man. He has checked me for lumps bumps and parasites and still finds me sexy. God love this man.
He looked at my pained expression and in his classically unflinching way said “what do you need me to look at?”
“I have a cuppage situation” was about all I could manage.
Without going into too many details, he managed to hunt down the offending object which, it seemed, had decided to go round the corner for a cup of tea and a lie down.
I felt simultaneous relief and justifiable mortification. But old “nah, don’t worry about it babe” just smiled and said he was happy to help.
To be fair it was the closest to sex he’d get for the next few days.
Periods are a bitch. And I liked those undies. And leakage is bullshit. But at least I know who to call when I next experience a -Sarah-stuck-in-the-labyrinth (labiarynth?) (80’s gold). scenario again.