I am warning you ahead of time. I am going to talk about Lady Things. If you get squeamish at the idea of this, then don’t read. However, allow me to persuade you for a paragraph. I really don’t see what the big deal is. I am not talking about mangled hands or chopped-up heads. Just tampons. There are no explicit stories or pictures. So while I am prompting you ahead of time, I am saying you are wacked in the head -- if you do not read. Little people learn that boys have penises and girls have vaginas. If you can talk about your phlegm in your throat, or your bad ankle, what’s the difference? Just wondering. Here’s the story:
Saturday, September Something or Other. I am going to Whole Foods. I am looking for this thing called a Diva Cup that will keep me from having to use tampons. Yes, it goes “up there.” Figure it out. I am sorry if you find this embarrassing, as well, but I don’t see how a vagina is any more unmentionable than an index finger. I have one; therefore, I am going to talk about it without weirdness and feeling that I have to blush or lower my voice. I mention this because I had a pause before I wrote, and this annoying prude of a voice inside me went: “Are you SURE you want to bring this topic in here??” Uh, yes. Go away, voice. VAGINA VAGINA VAGINA. Take that, repression. I will wear The Scarlet V.
This cup is supposed to be the solution to tampons, those pesky things that women need every month. I am one of those people who gets nutty about changing tampons often. I change far more often than is necessary. I don’t like the feeling of a wet string from when I pee, I do not like the idea of something old inside me, and I don’t want Toxic Shock Syndrome, and I do not wear pads. I prefer not to feel as though I am wearing a diaper.
Back to the Toxic Shock horror story, I remember being warned about this when I came of age. The worry that I might get something bad if I left a tampon in a minute too long, stuck with me, like the scare tactic that scares boys by telling them they’ll grow hair on their palms if they masturbate. This was not my concern. Toxic Shock? Yes. I worried. I didn't know what it was, even, but I knew it would kill me. It stuck with me. The likelihood of me actually contracting this is probably very rare, but I am not taking my chances. Like the icky puddles on bathroom floors, it bothers me. That meant umpteen boxes every month. And then there is the embarrassing factor of what to do with the tampon thing when you need to get rid of it.
Last week, I had a session with someone at his house, and used the bathroom when I arrived. I removed my not-very-old tampon in order to “re-apply” and when I went to throw it out, after wrapping it obsessively with paper, so there was not even a hint of what it used to be, I looked in at the open garbage can next to the toilet. It was small and delicate. And unlike our bathroom garbage, which is a paper bag, filled with umpteen paper towels, cue tips, etc, this one had NOTHING in it. So basically, if I put the wrapped thing in there, they will KNOW it was me. It was not exactly obscure since I had wrapped it to the size of a small football. This is the kind of shit that makes my anxiety go off.
I had to tell it like it was because I couldn’t leave it in there for his wife to find or him, and for them to think, what a crass guest. (This is why I have free-floating anxiety. Too much time spent on small details.) I told him (of course, it HAD to be a man) that I had “something” to put in the trash, and did not want to put it in the trash, and could I use another COVERED trash can. He smiled, said, “I get it, I get it,” and in it went. I put it in, obviously, but all this could have been avoided. This is why I want the Diva cup.
There were lots of reasons to try it.
So I looked for this cup, which my same friend I mentioned earlier, Carolina, told me about. She knows about all sorts of things and life in general. She is very wise and tells me when I am being an ass or a martyr. Additionally, I like her because her name is close to mine, give or take an “a” instead of an “e.” I went to check the price. Almost forty bucks.
I couldn’t remember how much she said it was on Amazon. She told me all about it the other night when we were discussing periods and mentioned how she loved this Diva Cup. Sometimes she has to yell at me, because I bombard her with questions, elated comments, and explosions of silliness when she is speaking. I have a hard time shutting up at times, when I am excited. I am excited a lot.
The brain bursts things out of it. And I “flirt,” trying to keep her entertained. This is not confined just to men, but anyone I like. So I did not listen. Therefore, I decided I should wait rather than have buyer’s remorse if I found out that it was twice as much at Whole Foods. I would look it up on-line when I had internet access. After that, I walked around and stared at food I wasn’t going to eat.
Burrata caught my eye. Uh oh. The mold factory inside me does not appreciate cheese. So I am avoiding it. But just so you know, it was the one I love, in the yogurt-type container, that tastes like marshmallow fluff. “Wake up, wake up,” my little angel said. The angel I harbor is like the one in cartoons that pops up on the shoulder of the person. I have had this little creature by my side as long as I can remember. It needs to come up often, because I am often tempted to do things that are inadvisable. “You cannot have this,” said the angel. I listened to it. Often, I don’t, but it doesn’t hold grudges, luckily.
I left and walked out to my car. Only food there with sauces. No plain meat. The hot roasted chicken looked good if I could have lifted off six plastic tops and pulled off all the skin and left the meat. Somehow, I am certain this would not be welcome.
I got back in my car and got ready to go somewhere. I had a variety of plans. But I got to staring at the leaves on the trees moving like crazy, while I was sitting in my car. I love sitting in my car. It is nothing fancy, but it is self-contained and makes me feel protected. I love to write in there, too, as I am doing now.
Back to the trees. (Brief ADD break. The image of the car spun me away from the leaves.) The leaves were all blending one into the next. They were shades of green, yellow, orange, and brown. No matter how the tree shook them, they lifted up and down, and let themselves be tossed.
I started thinking about how to let oneself be moved in adversity. When I am feeling anxious or wishful, or wanting, I wonder how I act in contrast to these leaves. They are rooted to the tree. I am rooted to life. I think I often grind down, or hold back, or rush forward. What would I look like if I were a leaf on a tree? Would I rip myself from the tree?
It didn’t seem like a struggle when I looked at the leaves. In fact, it calmed me and I could see a rhythm to the movement. I could enjoy watching from inside my protected covey. It brought me away from my own struggle, and my own life, and I was able to witness.
It was so nice to be able to watch without stepping in it, but it gave me a sense of direction. How to be moved.
It felt like when I watch the sea anemones. I can look at them forever. My husband and I went to the Monterey Aquarium a year or so ago, where they are, and he had to drag me away. It was so beautiful to watch them dancing in the tank. It was a command performance.
This is what it felt like with the trees. It felt like people in action, screaming, loving, playing, and letting themselves be shaken. Sometimes I have people I work with do all these movements, with the intention that by loosening everything from the roots, the body stops doing its tug of war. Then you can let yourself go. Shake like you got tons of blubber and everything can wiggle. And then the energy MOVES.
It excites me and inspires me to move like this when I see the leaves doing it. You can always learn by watching.
My brain calmed, and I watched until I felt the urge to close my eyes. I wasn’t departing from life, but sinking in deeper. I felt filled by watching the moves and seeing that I want this, in the way they allowed themselves to be shaken without trying to hold still. Life will not stay still. So all this filled me up.
I closed my eyes and died a little. While the leaves raged and I lay still. My body sunk and relaxed and everything softened around me. This is as good as shaking blubber. This is how I calm down. This is my medicine. Leaves float and life goes on and I can fit somewhere in between. Learn to wiggle. It’s better than vodka.
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