I bled right through my favorite pants. You know the ones—gold, high waisted, flowy, lookin’ like the sun materialized into a garment so comfortable, so capable that you never want to take them off—the ones I wear pretty much every damn day, which means you’ve likely seen them on me a grip of times.
Don’t worry, I got the stains out.
I wasn’t expecting my menses on day 27, so of course I found myself at my favorite coffee shop, furiously and fixedly typing away, completely unaware of the happenings within my uterus. I knew it was coming, I just thought, “tomorrow,” like so many other things.
It’s not common for me to be disconnected from my body in such a way, but things have been shifting for me lately, ripening—which can be disorienting at times. I’m recalibrating a lot within myself, getting to know this 36 year old body in new and interesting ways.
So there I was, blood stained pants in a packed coffee shop, 20 minutes from home, comically unprepared.
Panicking for just a sliver of a moment in the coffee shop bathroom, I was faced with a choice to be or not be ashamed—to be bold in all aspects of my being or hide my blood stained pants from the world outside that bathroom door. But hiding, for me, is not an option anymore. It hasn’t been for some time now.
My menses, like the rest of me, is unapologetic.
Fuck it. I opened the door and walked at a normal pace, with a normal gait, stained by my perfectly normal menses. When I got home, I changed, washed my favorite pants, and finished my work from bed.
At 36 years old—25 years into menstruation—I was surprised to find myself unprepared, startled by the hilarity of the situation. But not ashamed.