Welcome, men, to a ride you never asked for, “The Red Week of Doom.”. Please keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times. Since this is a simulation of a woman’s period, if at any point this ride becomes overwhelming, simply close your eyes, and the feeling will pass. Sit back, don’t relax, and don’t enjoy the ride.
It’s early in the morning. Your alarm clock goes off at 6:00 am because you have to hit the gym before work to meet society’s ridiculous beauty standards. But then, you roll over and notice that the bed feels wet. You look at the calendar app on your phone, but it’s two days before you’re supposed to start your period. You look down.
Too bad.
You’re two days early.
You run to the bathroom and grab a damp washcloth, which you immediately wipe on the bed before throwing your sheets into the washing machine. You toss your underwear in there while you’re at it but know that they might be trashed. Oh, well. At least underwear is only $25 per pair.
You look under the sink in the bathroom for sanitary products and squat over the toilet as blood drips down your fingers. You wash your hands, but that bloody smell never really goes away.
You decide that you aren’t going to work out because your stomach is in knots, and you feel like a demon is kicking you from the inside of your body. You can’t curl back into bed with a heating pad because your sheets are in the wash, so you decide to take a warm shower.
You search through your closet for your “period clothes” – the loose clothes that are comfortable enough to fit your disgustingly bloated stomach.
Before you go to work, you notice that you have to go to the bathroom not one, not two, but three times, even though your stomach pain never really goes away. You pop two Advil and rush to your car.
At the office, you get out of the car and immediately inspect the seat for any leakage. When no one’s looking, you quickly check the back of your shorts and run into the office. As you sit in your chair, you hear a “squish” sound, so you reach into your purse for another sanitary product. You slip it up your sleeve so that none of your coworkers will notice, and you quietly slink away to the bathroom.
You slam the stall door shut behind you, rip a heavy cotton ball out of a very small hole, and shove a cold piece of plastic “down there.” You clean the blood off your hands again and return to your desk, hoping that your coworkers don’t question why you were in the bathroom longer than usual.
Your stomach twists and turns as you sit at your desk and chuckle with coworkers, pretending to care about their weekend. All of a sudden, rage bursts through you, and you suddenly can’t stand the sight of Chase from accounting. Seriously, you hate Chase.
You text your friend that you’re having one of those days and pray that she’ll DoorDash you some chocolate. She doesn’t, of course, so you continue doing your job as if your stomach isn’t fighting a losing battle.
Finally, the work day is over, and you rush home to enjoy all of the fatty foods you hide in the pantry for this painful occasion. Your boyfriend texts you some lewd comment about giving him a blowjob – he knows exactly what week it is. You turn on The Bachelorette, excited for some drama that doesn’t involve your own pain.
Hopefully you can sleep tonight, but you probably can’t, because you’re sad that the Bachelorette can choose from 30 adoring men, and you’re stuck with Joe. You begin sobbing uncontrollably in bed until you finally pass out. And lucky for you – you get to do this for the rest of the week.
Photo by Natracare on Unsplash
