You’d think bleeding halfway through someone’s mattress would provide me my fill of menstrual-related excitement. Unfortunately, when it rains, it pours, and I have no shortage of mortifying moments to share.
It started on a plane. I was coming home from New York City, and my first flight was deplaning in Chicago O’Hare. I had a short layover and I was antsy for everyone to get moving, as I was in the very back row of the plane. As everyone took an aggravatingly long time to pack their shit and get out of my way, I shot out of my seat ready to move. And as I did so, I felt that horrifying GUSH. My heart simultaneously jumped into my throat and sunk into my stomach.
Oh. My. God. Oh my dear, dear God. No. Nonononononono.
I glanced down. Yes.
Fuck.
What do I do?
My layover is 45 minutes. My baggage is checked, and I am flying internationally. I have no change of clothes. I have no tampons. I have about 30 minutes to procure both of these things in an unfamiliar airport. One of the biggest in the world. I am panicked. If I don;t achieve this mission, I am doomed to be soaking in a pool of my own blood for the next six hours.
I tie my sweater around my waist, I thank jeebus the seats are leather, and I haul ass off that plane.
I am managing to run, waddle, and do the most intense keels I’ve ever done all at once. I’m practically tachycardic from hypovolemic shock from the huge blood loss. Okay, maybe I was just really upset. But whatever. I have, like, 20 minutes to find new pants in an airport.
I’m racing up and down terminals. I’m checking newsstands, gift shops, duty-free. Nothing. Not a single, ugly pair of “CHICAGO” sweatpants in the middle of February. I’m panicking.
And then I see it, out of the corner of my eye. The oasis. A Harley-Davidson Store. In the middle of the airport. I charge in, I scan the store, and in the very back, what do I see? A rack of jeans. I cried a single tear of joy and relief. They were $100 a pair, but I didn’t give a single fuck. I found a size 4, thrusted a handful of crumpled bills at the cashier, refused her plentiful offers to try them on prior to purchase, and RAN, locking myself in a bathroom stall. My underwear got trashed, but I didn’t care. I’ll ride commando in new jeans for a six hour flight. Fucks given? Zero! I stuffed my old jeans in my tote bag and quite literally sprinted to my gate where they were paging me for my last chance to get on the plane before they took off without me.
I sat my smug ass down, and slept all the way home.
Of course, I never wore the jeans again. They were ugly jeans. Until summer rolled around and I found myself in dire need of shorts. So I took scissors to that bitch and happily wore them through to September.
Autumn came. Snow fell. The shorts got tucked into the back of a drawer.
Until I started slinging $7 Pilsner at a local stripclub. Each night had a ‘theme’ that servers were supposed to dress to, and Tuesday’s theme was “Western Wear”. I dug out the shorts. My girlfriend decided they were not nearly short enough to grant me the tips that I was hoping to make, so she got at me with a pair of shears
I didn’t end up working at the club long. But even after the job was over, I still held on to these ridiculous short shorts. Because, lets be real. They look bitchin’ on me, and I will shamelessly post this photo to prove that even period panic pants can have happy endings.
Sorry I Ruined Your Sheets, And Other Stories 