Disclaimer: Probably not for dudes. Unless you liked The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974 version, of course. Jessica Biel is kinda a twat and ruins every movie she is in.), but even then, things could get dicey.
I just got home from spending four days in LA.
Four days of jamming way too many important events into way too little of a time frame.
It was so fun. Way warmer than the negative -20 windchill I left behind in Ohio. And, since I traveled without my normal entourage of very small people, I was able to drink it up at each and every meal without the stares of the public condemning me for doing body shots off the abs of gay strippers while wearing my nursing bra.
We went to the beach, danced to Gaga, clinked glasses at every meal, and out of engorged desperation, I am even pretty sure I breastfed Allison’s cat (I am clearly way classier than Her Bad Mother).
LA was the balls, I was sad to leave it behind.
It was on the connecting flight back east that I knew something was up.
I was sitting there, trying not to vomit because I am a firm believer that flying in airplanes goes against nature (hello!? Only Jesus is allowed to float and eat peanuts in the sky), and I totally had to pee, which I dreaded because two hours into my four hour flight, I saw a lot of questionable, and probably disease ridden people come and go out of that little bathroom. There was no doubt in my mind that toilet seat was covered in drops of hot pee and pubic hair.
But, in my pants, things were getting weird.
You know when you are sitting there, and you’re feeling kinda crampy, and then you start to get this hot leaky feeling? The, oh shit I think I totally just started to menstruate, feeling?
I had that.
So, I waited for, like, three billion more people to hepatitis-up the porta potty, and finally made my move, before the fucking douche bag teenager with the iPod could beat me to it. God knows how long she was going to be in there rocking out to the Twilight soundtrack, while she got off carving Edward’s name into her thigh with a safety pin from her combat boots…or maybe that was me…I don’t know…the details are irrelevant…I was potentially bleeding, people, from my vagina, 5 miles above the Earth.
So, there I was, hovering above a wet tin toilet seat in the sky…bleeding.
This was bad for four reasons.
1. I haven’t had my period since July 2008, and I totally forgot how it works.
2. I brought two pairs of panties to LA, and I wasn’t wearing either of them.
3. I had nothing that resembled a tampon or pad.
4. I was bleeding FIVE MILES ABOVE THE EARTH. I cut my leg shaving while on vacation in Colorado once, and the altitude made it impossible for it to clot, and my knee bled for two whole days. I am shocked I didn’t need a transfusion. What if the lack of cabin pressure caused me to bleed out? How do you put a tourniquet on your labia? Are post 9/11 flight attendants even trained for this important shit anymore?
The terrorist win, again.
Well, I couldn’t very well return to my seat and just bleed through my jeans. And, there was no where near enough toilet paper left to fashion a maxi pad. So, I did the only thing I could think of, and ripped the sign off the back of he door that says “Prevent the Spread of H1N1. Please Wash Your Hands,” folded it up a few times, and stuck it, strategically, between my lady parts, and waddled back to my seat to eat peanuts.
I am pretty much Bear Grylls.
As soon as I landed for my connection in Chicago, I ran as fast as I could, while keeping my thighs together, to the rest room, bought a tampon, yanked out the paper sign, cleaned up the mess, and shoved a tampon up there, the way God intended.
Gonna be honest, the bloody sign wouldn’t even flush, but you know what, at that point, it’s not my problem any more.
I flew home to Ohio both happy and not leaking, with the words “Spread H1N1” delicately transferred to the inside of my labia.
I’m like the CDC…in need of a brazilian.