Via Lilu: ***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!***
When I was in eighth grade, I still had a very limited experience with tampons. (What? Did you need a warning? It’s Thursday after all.) And even those were relegated to those Junior Playtex – with the applicator. Duh.
Also, considering that a) I was still rather new at this whole women-bleed-every-month thing and b) I wasn’t on the pill yet, when my monthly gift would come was kind of a crap shoot.
So, because Mother Nature likes to fuck with me, she brought my gift during Thanksgiving break. When we were at my grandparents’ house. And visiting other family who were staying at a hotel. With a pool.
While changing into my bathing suit (please, sitting out was not an option), I realized that the only tampons on hand were those little o.b. ones. Gentlemen, if you’re not familiar, they do not have an applicator – or, in guy terms, a little plastic thingy that easily slides right up in there. Which meant that I would awkwardly have to stick my finger up my hoo-ha to maneuver make sure it was all the way in. Eek!
I tried. I really did. And it’s not that I’m squeamish; it’s that I hate to fail. At anything. So when I couldn’t get the little bugger up there after the first couple tries, I got frustrated. And of course my mom was knocking on the door, asking how it was going, to which I could only reply, “Fine! Leave me alone! I’ll be out in a minute!”
The minute stretched and stretched, until finally I just gave up and admitted defeat to the tampon. But I found another option. An option that probably wouldn’t have worked as well if those two-piece boy-short bathing suits hadn’t been so popular at the time.
I wore a pad into the pool. And was uncomfortable the entire time. Particularly when I had to get out, and felt that water-logged insert weighing down my shorts. And when I realized that my mom knew, and was whisper-explaining to the rest of the adults why I was waddling like that.
Moral of the story? Applicators are your friend. Especially come pool-time.