Having been exposed to a lot of apocalypse material in media, I have become one of those people who are convinced that it will happen. And since I like to pattern reality after fictitious events, I’m resigned to say that a catastrophe will occur at the moment we least expect. You might be having lemonade on your newly-decorated patio when your neighbor drops by to borrow some sugar… with your brain on it!
I know I don’t live on Fear Street to compel me to prepare an escape strategy for miscellaneous viral outbreaks or extra-terrestrial invasion, but I kind of have it anyway. That’s just me. I’m a Virgo—I make plans. I have in Evernote a list of things I would take with me if I’m ever in a situation that would require me to run for my life. I think I have a knack for preparation and survival and I demonstrated this at an early age: I was 11 when my family and I were on vacation out of the country for three weeks. Halfway through the trip, majority of the family members are complaining about their fingernails growing too long for their own good. They were all due a clipping. So they were like, “I wish I could’ve bought a nail clipper,” and I was all, “ta-da!” with my Minnie Mouse nail clipper.
That’s me. I’m prepared. A girl scout at heart. Et cetera, et cetera. I have little to worry about when a crisis takes place.
Except this little thing is kind of actually a big thing: My period.
Why is this a problem? Welp, disasters mean evacuation. Evacuation leads to camping out somewhere. The moment you leave your home, your chances of ever stepping into a proper bathroom are dismal. Pop culture and common sense have made it clear that it’s okay to relieve yourself behind bushes. It’s the norm for people on the run. But what is the norm for periods?
My horoscope would say, “Carry a pack of Tampax in your survival fanny pack.” That right there is a real pearl of wisdom if you know what I mean. But while that may be taken care of, being on my period is still a huge problem for me. I get the most horrible cramps. I’m about to be swallowed by a dinosaur? My cramps just cannot be counted on to participate. It’s fight or flight or squirm in pain. El cramp-o is the stage on which I perform the act that is my life. I will probably die and my cramps would still live to see the aftermath of the apocalypse.
I’ve only seen one film accurately depicting the woes of women with bad cramps, and even that was a romantic comedy. All I want is to see a fellow woman figuring out when to change her tampons in between loading her magnum and defeating Nemesis. I’m looking at you, Jill Valentine.