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I Can't Believe I Just Wrote About My First Monthly Period

* originally published on We Come of Age *

I have always been obsessed with arranging lists in the alphabetical or chronological order but I usually fail at it in the end. And since I am here to share some stinking tales from my teenage past, it is more reasonable for me to be as compulsive as I can by tale-telling my incredibly boring youthful series of unfortunate events in a retrograde manner. Although the title itself may appear so estrogen-concentrated, readers of the masculine variety may still read on. Albeit, I have to forewarn all of you that you will, more or less, not learn any uplifting morale in any of my stories. Here goes…

Given the fact that I belong to the female species, the first thing which comes to my mind when I speak of adolescence is being thirteen years old and being able to experience menarche. A wee definition: biologically speaking, menarche is the exact opposite of menopause; it is the glorious time when girls become, ooh, fertile. No, I won’t be discussing how the menstrual cycle takes place phase by phase but in reality, it is when our mothers scream with utmost pride, “My baby is now a lady!” A couple of years later, though, our mothers will come to realize and utter, “Oh, crap, please don’t get pregnant too soon.”

It was a May-summer morning (yes, I still remember the month which goes to show how big a deal this topic is to me) when I micturated and realized I had the menarche. I already knew what was happening to my womanhood: one of the pros of having three elder sisters in my nuclear family. In fact, right after I was shocked and grossed out by the sight of smeared brick red blood on my panty’s lining, I immediately stole a feminine pad from my sisters’ closet. But I wasn’t too ignorant, unlike that one episode from Seventh Heaven when Lucy first had the blood and she had to throw tantrums all around. She even had to turn upside down so that blood would circulate back in her reproductive system. That was all part of the show, yes, but still, what a dumbass.

In the same morning, I told my mother about it and her face literally lit with glee. She even mocked me in a sing-song voice that I was all grown up already and that I shouldn’t be lifting heavy things from thereon. Yeah, right, all grown up,despite of being surrounded by my classmates who were literally exchanging boyfriends and girlfriends at the time and for the record, I had nada. Nevertheless, as I think about the day of my first bloody visitor, I now realize how grateful I should be because I did not need to do certain rituals involving the menses.

Imagine jumping off the stairs because, according to the oldies, your cycle will be limited to only three days if you jump from the third step to the ground. Imagine washing your face with it because, according to the oldies, your face will be rid of pimples or acne. Imagine not taking a bath during your monthly syndrome because, according to the oldies, all of your blood will suddenly gush out your genitals and then you’ll die. Ironically, those same oldies who kept on suggesting those weird things to do when one’s vagina is in its primary distress were the ones who got preggers at a very young age. Frigging know-it-alls.

But then, we all go through a stubborn phase especially during our teenage mutant times. And although I was not stubborn enough to believe the mythical craps as mentioned above, this only marks the beginning of my adolescent chronicles. First things first usually work for me and as I have shared my first monthly period experience to you, why don’t you share yours with me? Or am I the only one who’s fascinated by human foibles that I had the guts and nerves to broadcast this as my first story?

Whatever, it’s your turn.

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I Can't Believe I Just Wrote About My First Monthly Period

* originally published on We Come of Age *

I have always been obsessed with arranging lists in the alphabetical or chronological order but I usually fail at it in the end. And since I am here to share some stinking tales from my teenage past, it is more reasonable for me to be as compulsive as I can by tale-telling my incredibly boring youthful series of unfortunate events in a retrograde manner. Although the title itself may appear so estrogen-concentrated, readers of the masculine variety may still read on. Albeit, I have to forewarn all of you that you will, more or less, not learn any uplifting morale in any of my stories. Here goes…

Given the fact that I belong to the female species, the first thing which comes to my mind when I speak of adolescence is being thirteen years old and being able to experience menarche. A wee definition: biologically speaking, menarche is the exact opposite of menopause; it is the glorious time when girls become, ooh, fertile. No, I won’t be discussing how the menstrual cycle takes place phase by phase but in reality, it is when our mothers scream with utmost pride, “My baby is now a lady!” A couple of years later, though, our mothers will come to realize and utter, “Oh, crap, please don’t get pregnant too soon.”

It was a May-summer morning (yes, I still remember the month which goes to show how big a deal this topic is to me) when I micturated and realized I had the menarche. I already knew what was happening to my womanhood: one of the pros of having three elder sisters in my nuclear family. In fact, right after I was shocked and grossed out by the sight of smeared brick red blood on my panty’s lining, I immediately stole a feminine pad from my sisters’ closet. But I wasn’t too ignorant, unlike that one episode from Seventh Heaven when Lucy first had the blood and she had to throw tantrums all around. She even had to turn upside down so that blood would circulate back in her reproductive system. That was all part of the show, yes, but still, what a dumbass.

In the same morning, I told my mother about it and her face literally lit with glee. She even mocked me in a sing-song voice that I was all grown up already and that I shouldn’t be lifting heavy things from thereon. Yeah, right, all grown up,despite of being surrounded by my classmates who were literally exchanging boyfriends and girlfriends at the time and for the record, I had nada. Nevertheless, as I think about the day of my first bloody visitor, I now realize how grateful I should be because I did not need to do certain rituals involving the menses.

Imagine jumping off the stairs because, according to the oldies, your cycle will be limited to only three days if you jump from the third step to the ground. Imagine washing your face with it because, according to the oldies, your face will be rid of pimples or acne. Imagine not taking a bath during your monthly syndrome because, according to the oldies, all of your blood will suddenly gush out your genitals and then you’ll die. Ironically, those same oldies who kept on suggesting those weird things to do when one’s vagina is in its primary distress were the ones who got preggers at a very young age. Frigging know-it-alls.

But then, we all go through a stubborn phase especially during our teenage mutant times. And although I was not stubborn enough to believe the mythical craps as mentioned above, this only marks the beginning of my adolescent chronicles. First things first usually work for me and as I have shared my first monthly period experience to you, why don’t you share yours with me? Or am I the only one who’s fascinated by human foibles that I had the guts and nerves to broadcast this as my first story?

Whatever, it’s your turn.

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