I apologize in advance for this post (My uterus made me do it)

12 May

There are few things in the world that will drag my ass out of bed in the middle of the night. Hunger, thirst, the desperate need to urinate – sleep trumps them all. Organs be damned, mama needs her shut-eye. And this is always true unless, of course, the offending organ happens to be my uterus.

In the years before I started taking birth control, my week of happy was, if nothing else, a painless one. No cramping and no murderous rage to speak of. In fact, my only complaint would have been, had I known any different, that my body always opted to take the 7 days that nature had allotted to do what it needed to do (sometimes more, never less). Whatever, I always thought, it was better than having a monthly appointment with the EXCRUCIATING PAIN that left so many of my peers bedridden (or at the very least, whiney and insufferable in their agony).

Well, it must have been all those years of pretending to ail from said EXCRUCIATING PAIN in order to get out of gym but man, let me tell you, since starting the pill I have joined the ranks of the whiney and insufferable. I’m like a god-damn animal in the days before I start now. If you even so much as breathe the wrong way I will CUT YOU WITH MY MIND. And the pain? Oh, the unbelievable pain that is my uterus shedding. Don’t a lot of women start this shit just to get rid of these symptoms? STORY OF MY LIFE, RIGHT THERE (Sort of).

There is something to be said for a naturally occurring pain so intense that it has the power to wrench me from my deepest of sleeps. Well, that was me last night. It’s kind of like when your alarm clock goes off but the sound just ends up getting incorporated into the fabric of the dream you’re having. And then, when you wake up? It’s exponentially worse. Today? I hate my life.

Still, at the same time, there is always a part of me that appreciates this time of the month. While my lady-friends praise the new fangled wonder drugs that will help to make those visits from Mother Nature a lot less frequent, I cling to my monthly house-call. It’s pretty much the equivalent to an “all clear!” call from a comrade on the battlefield.

What’s that? No babies? Ten-four!

So then I send my boyfriend a triumphant “Congrats on dodging premature parenthood for another month!” text and he responds with an obligatory, over-the-top expression of relief. Then we laugh loudly to shake off the lingering terror that even the most fleeting of prospects of accidental babies can bring.

Don’t get me wrong – we play safe. But as long as it works, I will continue to breed paranoia as long as it helps to prevent the breeding of anything else. After all, the last thing I want to do is turn out like Glee’s baby-mama-drama-llama, Quinn Fabray:

I firmly believe that Dianna Agron would make GREAT friends.

Okay, so the only similarity would be that we would both be young and knocked-up well before we were ready. But I like Quinn, so whatever, DEAL WITH IT. I also like Juno McGuff, so take your pick of cautionary whales.

This post has so much potential to segue into something poignant about being a card-carrying member of the generation of women that are opting to either wait to have kids or just not do it at all. Or maybe I could dive head-first in my delightfully opinionated stance proper sexual education or pre-marital sex. But honestly, I think I’ve done enough damage by gracing you all with the details of my menstrual cycle in the second post of this brand new blog.

You’re welcome.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go down a few more ibuprofen.

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