I figured, since now, everything about my crotch is now legally your business, it's time for some awesome girl-talk. Maybe you can bring me some chocolate and we can talk about how unbelievably hot the lead marshal on "Justified" is. (I know! Right? He's totally made me relax my lifelong prohibition on cowboys.) Anyway, before we get to the fun stuff, there's plenty of other things to talk about below the fold.
Like my period. Believe it or not, I never thought I would post about what Marie Antoinette(you should pay attention to what happened to her, btw...highly instructive,although I think sometimes she didn't know better)called her "monthly flowers". For a writer and leftist, I'm an incredibly private person, as much as my disability allows. Which is, if you want to know the truth, is not very much.So I can't believe I'm doing this, but my body has been a battleground since I "made the scene" three months early, one autumn in the early seventies.I've never really cared for that, but if the only way you can live is to fight for your place in line, you do it. Now, for most of my life, these fights did not involve what an evolved woman as yourself would call "down there" unless you count how horrified my girl scout troop was when I wore a Darth Vader suit to my Halloween party instead of something pink, but when I was fourteen, I got my first period, after assuming I'd be the one girl that wouldn't, and when I was fourteen and a half, I got menorrhagia.
Which is basically Dr. House-speak for some hormonal thing that turned my expected pubescent trickle into the After in a slasher film. It happens to some girls, and I was treated for it with oral contraceptives for about five years.I would have so loved for my mother to explain that to her boss, Debbie Lesko. That first summer it felt like everyone could tell anyway, and not because my breasts grew in and my face cleared up. My family physician at the time did not take my complaint seriously and, though male, told me I needed to accept being a woman and then my flow problems would stop.
I was finally treated by a female gynecologist. What does that have to do with the new law? Well, that was twenty years ago, or more, and it's only recently that I have textbook, twenty-eight day cycles. I haven't had a partner in a long time, so I'm not worried for me so much, but I'm sure there are many women like me, who are always a little caught off-guard when Aunt Flo drops by. If I were having sex, I doubt LMP would pinpoint the age very well.
We are not criminals.
We are not sluts.(In fact, Governor, some nice mom at AJ's has probably had an abortion. She just wouldn't tell you.)
If you think women are this ignorant at the time of conception, what sort of magic happens that turns us into June Cleaver(who, in real life was a divorced mom who took the job as the Beav's mom so she could be home for her kids after school.) in nine months. Anyway, Governor, I'm feeling fine today, or anyway it's not hormones making me angry and depressed.(It's PMS...Political Mental Stress.)
I know you were dying to know.