Foetal Position
‘Period,’ I groan, and twist the other way in the hope that it will relieve the pain. It doesn’t. He looks baffled as he puts on his boxers.
‘They still happen?’ he asks.
‘Can I do anything, Lab Rat?’
‘I need tampons,’ I whine. Josh looks uncomfortable.
‘Ah . . . oh . . . um . . . well . . .’ he stutters.
I sigh.
‘I can get them.’
‘Sorry, it’s just that Tony is waiting for me. We’ve planned to do a circuit and—’
‘I can get them,’ I repeat in the same monotone voice. ‘I’ll meet you at school.’
Josh hovers over me as his brain battles with what he should do (help his bleeding, pained fiancée) and what he wants to do (bicep curls).
‘Are you sure?’ he says, as if he cares.
‘Yes.’
He kisses me on the head, rubs my hair and leaves. Fuck men.
I stagger out of bed and get ready for work whilst in a right-angle position. The thought of buckling up work trousers around my melon tummy right now is making me feel ill, so I pull on my very loose wool dress and put on my ugliest, but most comfortable, flat black pumps. I then wobble to Tesco.
If I were prime minister, I would make it the law to have a period section by the till that would include tampons, chocolate and paracetamol.
It would mean that in situations like these, I can just grab it all and go.
But no, everything is spread out across the store, so here I am, hobbling from aisle to aisle, collecting all the things I need to survive this womb war, all while hoping that I am not leaking through my DIY pad.
I get to the menstrual section and find on the packaging of the tampons, logos of turtles with skulls on them, reminding us that we are using single-use plastic.
It’s like they think we want to buy this stuff.
I pick up two boxes of super and regular tampons from my trusty brand, despite the threat to turtles.
I like to think I do my part; I don’t drink through plastic straws, I recycle and I avoid buying fruit in wrapping, but when you’re bent over in cramps and your fiancé can’t even spare the gym for one morning to help you, then the last thing on your mind are the turtles.
I never thought I’d say this but, Year 10, as horrible as they, may be on to something.
What’s the point of sticking to the rules? Good behaviour doesn’t get you the promotion. It doesn’t get you laid. It doesn’t even get you the cake flavour you want at YOUR OWN WEDDING.
I begin to fill my basket with menstrual products. Sorry turtles, but womanhood is a bitch.