There are crazy things involved with being a girl. Crazy crazy things. Sometimes I shake my head and just don’t even understand them myself, and hey, I AM one, so I can’t imagine how boys deal with that (aside from just blindly accepting things like those foamy toe separators and forty thousand dollar hair goop budgets because they are just the price you have to pay for access to an Actual Living Female Breast with Free Additional Breast Bonus Pack) let alone how, say, other species look at us like we’re crazy. I mean, I know I talk about lemurs more than most online diarists, but do lemurs wear lipstick? No.
(I just totally cracked myself up thinking of shouting in my cube farm “But what about the lemurs! Think of the leeeeemurrrs!!”)
And then we have drag queens out there, up in our grill, doing the girl thing better than they have any right to. Sure, they make it look easy, don’t they? They’ve got those tiny little boy hips and thighs with no fat on ’em. All they need is some Sculpey, a Gillette Venus and the Anna Nicole wardrobe from Sears and they can work it like a runway Diva. It’s like taking the escalator up Mount Everest, bitches.
So I found myself at Mal-Wart at 9:30 pm on Saturday night. Not just any Mal-Wart, but a Stupor Mal-Wart, because our little freezer picked some random time on Friday night to pass on to the great appliance beyond, and being the inquisitive sort, I couldn’t track down the random clicky noise until a big pool of water on the kitchen floor helped to clue me in, and thus we were forced to go to the only place we could think of for a chest freezer at 9:30 pm on a Saturday night. While Esteban was locating a grunt to deal with checking out the 500-pound freezer, I wandered around the very confusing store, trying franitically to remember the stuff on my mental shopping list. I ended up with some cat litter, some more shampoo and conditioner (which I did NOT need, but it was on sale), and then some feminine products.
Boys (and Faux Girls), you know what is coming. Shield your eyes if you don’t want to know.
I wasn’t really paying attention to the package I grabbed. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m an Always pad girl because tampons make me squeamish and also seem to upset the natural order of things (I am a woman, not a half-full wine bottle). And I was in a hurry because it was a Saturday night and I was standing in a Stupor Mal-Wart and the level of dispair’ well, you’re soaking in it. So I keyed into the key phrases ‘thin’ and ‘maximum’ and noticed that the package seemed twice as large, so figured it was the economy pack, grabbed it and congratulated myself for not waiting until I had zero pads left before it occurred to me that I needed to replenish my supply.
Later, long after moving the new (gargantuan) freezer into the kitchen (where I hate it because it is ugly and also? I just hate it) and sorting through the half-thawed items and the only starting to thaw items and dumping them into new freezer (my lovely frozen scallops, however, have skated through the crisis unscathed) and fell into bed. On Sunday morning, we slept late and then I got up, showered, got dressed and started to put away the rest of the stuff. That’s when I noticed it.
I had purchased pad specifically meant for plus sized women.
Apparently, if you were size 14 or greater, you were to be using special pads. Fat girl pads. I had no idea such a thing even existed. Fat girl pads. Special pads for fat girls.
The fuck?
Ok, like we don’t have to go through life feeling already like second class citizens, not able to shop at the Gap without sending the little Gapbots into a flurry of confusion, worrying that one will recognize one’s own disembodied midsection on a local news special entitled ‘Life in the Fat Lane,’ and feel like Godzirra whenever we stand next to size 2’s and size 0’s. Now even our periods are separated into ‘normal people’ sized and the more pc term for ‘behemoth.’
I don’t know what this means exactly. I’m totally flummoxed. Are they saying that we need bigger pads to quell the veritable gushing of menstruation from our princesses? Is it because our panties have more, I don’t know, square acreage? Or is it our anatomy itself? We need special riggings for our cavernous vaginas? Should there be small craft advisories? Should we be installing orange flags on our vulvas and perhaps one of those beeping mechanisms to warn when backing up?
The damn Drag Queens have no idea, man. Yeah, fine, you can walk in high heels with a penis taped into your ass crack, but I’m carting a plus size period, with a side of abdominal cramping and PMS. Beat that shit, bitch.
I need a fucking Oreo. Stat.
