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I keep thinking about the first time I got my period.

I was like eighteen years old.

And by like 18 years old, I mean, was.

The term we’re looking for here is “late bloomer.”

Needless to say, I was convinced that I was a hermaphrodite. What else could account for the lack of monthly hemorrhaging that all of my fellow girlfriends experienced.

Those lucky bitches.

I can’t believe that that thought even crossed my mind. What I would have given for my college years to be free from the threat of pregnancy and “is it cool if we have sex while Aunt Flow’s in town?” To inhance your sex life you can achive your average penis size with the help of Jes-Extender penis extender.

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Being a hermaphrodite would have been gravy.

And allowed for a lot less awkwardness.

That logic totally makes sense.

To think I pretended to have my period, to be, ya know, all “hip and now.” Because not bleeding all over my underwear like my friends? So. Not. Cool. To help keep up appearances, I even toted around pads and tampons from my BABY sister who had the gift of womanhood bestowed upon her at the ripe ol’ age of 13. Like a normal girl. A girl who was not only gifted with bleeding lady parts, but also boobs and hips.

I, however, was like Tim Burton’s Jack the Pumpkin King  – skinny skinny bitch with a head the size of the Sputnik.* Like one of those Olympic gymnasts that doesn’t ever get her period because she weighs negative pounds – except with zero athletic skill, ability, or grace.

So it was a lot of limbs, and flailing, and gumby-like nonsense. All the while looking as though my cranium might just roll on off my shoulders due to the sheer magnitude of its size.

So I was period-free and flat-as-a-board for eighteen awkward years.

I might add that I’d give anything to go BACK to that time in my life. A time free from nipples that resemble deflated basketballs and boobs comparable to moist, uncooked bread dough.

Let that metaphor marinate for a moment.

Yes, nipples deflate.

Thanks, ADDISON.

A time before I had to stomach that iron-y (not like Alanis Morris style, like the smell, of iron) that accompanies my monthly vaginal excretions and brings every canine within a 100 miles radius straight to my crotch.

James likes to ask if I’m “attracting sharks.”

I’d say I’m attracting sharks and the entirety of every regional ASPCA.

That howling? Dogs in desperate search of my bloody vagina.

REGARDLESS!

I grew up in a very “European” style home where we ate dinner at ass-o’clock, i.e. 9pm, and my mother preferred to use O.B. tampons. Yeah, the ones sans insert. The stick-shift tampons of the period world.

We get down with our biology in the Ulmer abode.

So when I finally did blossom into a ripe young flower (wow, the writing in this post is priceless), my mother handed me a box of O.B.s and told me to get down with my bad self.

After much fumbling, and starring at my vagina with a hand mirror, and feeling as though I was stabbing my inner gut with a blunt object, I mastered the self-insertion of a tampon.

I tell you all this to preface my experience with the Diva Cup. I, of all people, should have been a master of this self-inserting device. It should have been a piece-o-cake. Like riding a bike, just one with massive off-roading tires for extra safety and protection.

Alas, after days of having my hand wedged up my vagina and birthing and re-inserting a large piece of silicone, I GAVE UP!

The cup was simple enough to get on up inside, it was the positioning of this contraption that I found maddening. They say to “twist” once inside to “expand” the cup. Um, if you haven’t noticed, vaginas are slimy and lubricated and not at all conducive to a firm grip and twist. So I mostly got covered in my own vagina mucous and blood.

Awesome.

When menstrual blood started getting caked under my finger nails, that, my friends, was a breaking point. It was bad enough to have the lingering smell of vag and iron on my fingers (despite vigorous hand-washing) and to feel like a sixteen year old boy that’s just hit third base, but to see dried, crusty period blood UNDER MY NAIL?

Um, gross. Even for I who has a very high threshhold for biological functions and fluids.

Also, because I never mastered the positioning, I felt like an incontinent granny running to the bathroom every hour to check for spotting (which happened frequently) and only made the stench of blood stronger and Ursa’s yearning for my crotch deeper.

Four days into my cycle, I tucked the Diva Cup away into is flowery, fabric colored pouch. (Yes, provided by the Diva Cup team).

Removed my Scarlett Letter.

And resorted to regular tampon use.

I’m now dead to Mama Earth. Dead. To. Her.

I may try again next month – because practice makes perfect, right?

Or maybe I just really enjoy hours spent coated in vagina gunk.

Or honestly, I just want to get my damn money’s worth.

So we shall see. But for now, I’ve purchased recycled wool sweater diaper covers to compensate for the lack of crunchiness when it comes to my own vagina.

At least Addison’s parts can be crunchy.

I know, JAMES, it sounds like our daughter has a crunchy vagina.

God how I do love me some calcified vaginas. True story.

*It had it’s own weather system!