Any squeamish men should stop reading now.
I don’t like to complain. (I can already hear my siblings and mother smothering their guffaws at that statement, but roll with me, people.) I mean, I’m pleased as punch that my pubes grew back in and Aunt Flow is visiting routinely again. And yet, I’m rather annoyed to be dealing with this bull shit while road tripping.
First, my uterus hurts. A lot. Did cramps always suck this much? I feel like I’m in that scene from Alien when the little bugger rips out of her stomach. Actually, that would be better, because then the cramps would end. It’s more like the little fucker and his buddies are wearing golf cleats and doing double-dutch with my fallopian tubes. I find myself eying the plastic spoon resting in my empty frosty cup and wondering if I could just dig that bad boy out, ship it home, and deal with it later.
Second, there’s the bladder situation. It seems those alien fuckers are working on finishing off a keg and utilizing my bladder, too. Then they use the near bursting balloon as a trampoline. I’m lucky if I can make it more than forty minutes before I cross my legs and start playing the alphabet game in an attempt to forget about the three glasses of iced tea I drank since our last stop. I can usually count my teeth with my tongue while siting on my foot for another twenty minutes or so before making Rocco aware of the impending flood. To his credit, he tries to keep his huffing subtle enough that I don’t notice, but I know he’d rather we didn’t stop every hour for a pee break. It does slow us down a bit.
Third, I’m having pad issues. I did not pack wisely for this outing. I wasn’t paying much attention to the calendar and how my reproductive cycle might impact our traveling situation. In other words, I didn’t pack supplies. Fortunately for me, I still have a pile of “second string” pads stowed away just in case. Unfortunately for me, they suck.
I bought them in a hurry on some other outing back when all my “lady parts” (as poor Rocco insists on calling them) still weren’t working from the repeated nukings. Suddenly, out of the blue, someone opened the fire hydrant and I had to find supplies STAT. So we rushed into some closet sized convenience store and purchased the one option they had. I suspect they could also work as Depends based on the size of these mattresses. I think I sit a full two inches taller in the car seat when one is in use.
I have no idea how long they sat on the shelf in that convenience store before I swept them into my toiletry bag. I do know that they’ve lain dormant in my bag for at least another four months. Regardless of their age, I can definitively say the adhesive is breaking down. I’ve been having minor issues getting them to stick to my bloomers, but I thought is was just a mild annoyance…until our rest stop en route to Kentucky.
As per usual, as soon as Rocco slowed Ginny down to under seven mph, I was out the door, flip flopping my booty across the parking lot and into the bathroom. I’d hardly punched the doorknob lock and flung my purse onto the counter before I was shucking clothes. I grabbed my waistband and got in two good shimmies before yelping in pain.
Yes folks, the front of my pad had flipped over, sticky side up. I’d been smooshing my newly full pubes into the adhesive strips (which apparently work perfectly fine on flesh and hair) for at least two solid hours. I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say I’ve got a new hair-growing challenge ahead of me.