09.18.01
The Overlord is not so secretly happy that I am cranky, bloated, and crampy.
That's right folks, for reasons as inexplicable as they are disgusting to contemplate, after a six month hiatus, my period has returned. The rivers again runneth red. Auntie Flow's come to town after a prolonged engagement elsewhere. The playground's closed for repairs.
Sometime last week, one of Carol's more, shall we say, inclined to share too much informational-type clients, regaled us with the tale of how she'd had to have her period induced, and she'd almost hemorrhaged to death, etc., after she'd inadvertently stockpiled several months worth of feminine ick in her innermost girly bits. (IE: instead of shedding her endometrial lining, her body maintained a uterus full of menstrual ickiness for several months, causing her much pain and a lovely near-death experience to boot!)
And ever since the tale was told, someone has been utterly convinced that the reason that I haven't had a real period of any sort is because I too have been stockpiling feminine ick in my innermost girly bits.
Which is something I most vehemently deny.
Not only have I not packed on 30 or so pounds of excess girth around my midsection and ass, but I also have managed to lose a quantity of weight in the process that is probably responsible for the lack of menstruation in the first place.
And as if I was really the type.
Geesh.
I'm exactly the type of person that has ignored the fact that I haven't had a normal period for six months because I'm lazy, I quite enjoy not having the mess, and while feminine hygiene products and pints of Ben & Jerry's are both moderately expensive, the ice cream is inarguably the more enjoyable of the two choices presented.
The only good that I can see coming from all of this is that no longer will I have to listen to Overlord Carol's, "You should go to the doctor! It's not normal to not have a period! You probably have a tumor! You could die, or you could go sterile!"
As if the threat of sterility is the sort of inducement that I need to go to the chick doctor. If she had an ounce of cunning, she'd have threatened me with ultra-fertility, "Your body is stock-piling eggs, and the next time a man looks at in that certain special way, you're going to have septuplets."
I'd have been standing outside Planned Parenthood the next morning, beating on the door, anxiously waiting for the doctors to arrive.
See? Now that's what I call effective.
