Oh baby, isn’t the modern wired world a wild one? I began clicking through the “next blog” pages to find I was surrounded by lovely Aunt Donna and her lady friends at the beauty salon, and ab bearing men referred to as “Shirtless Perfection.”
This makes me wonder who I am! And who are you?
We are something between naked musclemen and old ladies in beauty parlors.
The mate is in Boston and I am alone with a cat and a dog and thing in the attic that chews and chews.
**
Am I like the pre teen who gets a diary and the first thing she writes is about her menses and crushes on boys with angelic eyelashes? Well how can I not? How does one tune out hell? Each month, since childhood really (and isn’t eleven childhood in our culture) it has come and sacrificed me on its altar, dragged my body out onto its altar and demanded the blood sacrifice.
The apples and rubies and pomegranates, the iron of the body.
And then afterward, the commandment to rebuild.
God and the body are all wrapped up together.
I liked my period until five or years ago. Maybe ten years ago.
At least I told myself I did.
Maybe I always had Stockholm syndrome.
**
When I was fifteen I lost half the blood in my body.
Through my womb. Out between my legs. I was only Not Dead because it had taken days and not hours and so I had adjusted to the shock.
Before that, the first few years of my period, I marveled at the power and beauty of it and thought it was the god and goddess of fertility flowing through me. That the body belonged to nature, that girls were special vessels chosen to endure and procreate the magic of life.
In my middle perimenopausal life, I am pretty certain that the period is pathological, left over like belief in a vengeful god or patriarchy.
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