A first time for everything

The first date.

The first hangover.

The first viewing of “Fellowship of the Ring”

And now, I bring you the first time I got my period whilst running on the treadmill.

It’s rather unfair, when you think about it. Here you are, trying to do something good for your body, and it proceeds to be so utterly ungrateful that it puts ever bratty teenager in a ten-mile radius to shame.

You are running happily, bouncing along to the chit-chat regarding Don Imus and Duke Lacrosse on Headline Prime, or whatever, and just a ghost of a cramp appears in your abdomen, so you ignore it (because Erica Hill’s flawless delivery is clearly more interesting). Only when you start to feel just a tiny bit damp do you begin to wonder what’s going on, considering the fact that Don Imus couldn’t have that effect on you, not in a billion years, not if human civilization was entirely wiped out and your only alternative was a gibbon.

“No.” You think. “Surely not now.”

You are wearing very short shorts (the ones with DUKE emblazoned proudly on the bum that you are working so hard to keep in shape, as to be worthy to be a billboard for your alma mater in the first place). You are wearing very short shorts that happen to be light-coloured, not exactly white, but close enough. The gym in your complex is tiny, and so far there is no one else there, but people do tend to pass by more frequently in the evening, and it’s not even dark outside yet!

You feel as if you’re twelve years old again, and Evan from French class just saw the top of your tampon box sticking out from your backpack and giggled like an idiot, and both of you are mortified, because you’re stupid.

You already see yourself, sprinting home like an extra from a zombie movie, covered in blood and shrieking.

So you check to see if there are people outside, and then you take off at a jog, or a skip, actually. And then you think that the faster you move, the more momentum your period will gain. So then you slow down. Then you speed up again. People in the parking lot of your apartment complex are staring at you, or so you think.

You nearly bump into a car because you’re so busy looking down at your shorts, preparing for Niagara.

And then you finally make it home, and realize that it could have been a whole lot worse. You could have been stuck at the Duke gym, miles away from home. You could have been on the road, miles away from the nearest rest area. You could have been in space on a Mars mission.

You could have been wearing your best underwear, instead of your second-best underwear.

And you remember that in spite of all this, you still love your period, like you would love your Bestest Friend. Who cares when Bestest Friend shows up, as long as he or she shows up at some point? Right?

And you love being a woman, because you can laugh at yourself so much more. Or so it feels today.