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••• Thursday, September 16, 2004

Today's agenda
Evokes sanitary belt
To the writer's chop

On With the Flow
Disclaimer: The following post contains thoughts of a personal and graphic nature regarding the month-to-month feminine hygienx of a perimenopausal maniac. No apologies or knit content ensue.

First of all, I think I am handling this aging thing very well. That being said, I must admit that I’m not handling this aging thing very well.

Truth be, there ain’t no pussy padding around this issue. I’m just gonna cut to the trap. I need a better tampon.

I’ve been using tampons since 7th grade, after I snuck a box from my sister’s stash and taught myself to apply (there’s another story there, honies). Although I've changed brands and suck levels over the years, the tampon has always been my monthly mainstay. My endometrial end all. It was all I required. Period.

Due to unforeseen changes in the wax and wane of my ebb and flow, I’ve resorted to padding my monthly security protocal with self-adhesive maxi-pads. This new necessity is making me a tad, er, crotch-ity.

As a relative newcomer to the maxi-pad, and after enduring several months of its silent indignities, I have some questions. First of all, why do they make the maxi-pad adhesive out of material which is a natural repellant to cotton crotched undies? Said adhesive, however, has become quite enamored with the tender epidermis of my inner thighs, upper crev-ass and any skirt/pant fabric hanging near.

If I'm wearing a skirt and no hose, the crack, snapple, pop of a bunched up sticky pad, as it travels thigh to thigh, is audible to the naked ear. In fact, an untimely butt-cheek shift in a suddenly silent meeting may cause those in attendance to scan the room for a chewing gum bogart.

Aside from discomfort, if the pad in question is sticking every which place but loose, it’s not providing much protection. In fact, the maxi-move I lovingly refer to as the Jelly Roll (not to be confused with the notorious C*** Blunt configuration) places the moisture repelling plastic side in the direct flow of fire.

This leads me to my second question. If it is necessary that I endure the discomfort of having a maxi-pad stuck to assorted and various parts of my nether regions, why not give the discomfort some function? I mean, let's stick the landing on the first try. Why not sell a roll of duct tape with a box of old-fashion Kotex and allow me to stick it anywhere I please? It may not be more comfortable, but at least I know who’s got my back. And if there’s a dilapitorial benefit to boot...no hair off my ass.

Where you going? I’m not done.

But none of the above rant would be even be necessary if the tampon manufacturers hadn’t left me hanging by a string. Simply put, today’s tampons don’t suck. Enough.

Years ago, there was a Saturday Night Live skit that spoofed on a tampon product. In this parody, a woman jumps into a swimming pool (purportedly wearing the product in question) whereupon the pool water slowly disappears, presumably absorbed by the kick-ass hygiene product.

I want that tampon.

I want a tampon that gives me cotton mouth. Hell, I want my tampon to give anyone within a three foot radius of me cotton mouth. I want a tampon that’s so powerful, it makes my ears pop, coming or going.

I want a mature tampon. None of those cutesy crayola-pons for me. I want my tampon to be thick and meaty, like a Johnson & Johnsonville brat. And strong. So strong, in fact, that I will never again worry about going to the staff picnic, wearing a thong under a mini skirt...an untimely sneeze...on the bosses shoe...Never again.

This is all I want. This is my menstral’s song.

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# posted by Marcia @ 7:03 AM


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