Are You There, God? It’s Me, Post-Menopausal Margaret
We need to have a talk, g.
At the naïve age of twelve, I begged and pleaded for this menstrual monstrosity. You knew what I was in for more than I did, god. I just wanted to fit in with my friends. I received the lesson you served me like a splash of cold water across my face. Never give up what you believe in to fit in with others. Never choose cruelty.
Looking back now, it ended up being a lesson that I would have to learn repeatedly, but I tried to recognize it and course correct. Considering I’m surrounded by a cherished chosen family, I’m optimistic that I succeeded in living that lesson more often than not.
Thank you for teaching it to me.
Little did I know, I would spend the next forty years talking to you all the goddamn time about the same goddamn topic. My stupid period!
Sorry, sorry. I shouldn’t tell you to damn yourself, that’s rude and seems vaguely masturbatory, ew. But my god, I begged for period-related favors for a host of predicaments for forty years. Forty. Years. All the terrifying times I willed it to please, god, come already, oh my god, what if.
And the despairing times of oh please, no, whether that be because of clothing choices, tampon availability, dreams of creating a family, or really hoping to get laid that night.
Speaking of which, thank you for creating, like, sex or whatever? It’s been a lot of fun practicing that sport over the years. OH! And uh, thank you for the, er, toys and whatnot, that help make sex still a blast, even through insane and decidedly terrifying bodily changes. There is some innovation in this world of yours, I tell you. Well done you.
Anyway, it sort of felt like a forty-year sentence, g, and it ended with hot flashes and sleepless nights and *surprise* periods — repeatedly when I had fine clothes on and no way to hide, mind you.
Oh, but now.
I mean, it’s a big deal when it starts. Of course, it was bound to be a big deal when it ended as well. We are fucking magical, and we don’t remember it often enough.