My Grandfather Called Them Man Hole Covers

You know how sometimes you guys, and by guys I mean actual humans sporting a penis and sometimes even balls, wander over to read my blog and get slammed with too much information about the mysteries of the female body? You know what I mean, with all the graphic details that freak you out and make you glad to be a man? Yeah, well, this is going to be one of those times, so brace yourself. Wear a cup or a condom or something. Man up.

There is nothing sexy about a tampon. Do you remember many moons ago when Prince Charles professed his love so eloquently to Lady Camilla by telling her he wanted to be her tampon? Seriously? Yuck. Who other than a member of the British royal family, a blood line with a history of hemophilia no less, would find it romantic to be a gob of ultra-absorbent cotton shoved up a bleeding twat? Did I say yuck already? How about gross?

And yet, most of my lady friends, like me, prefer a good sturdy tampon to a giant diaper-sized pad wadded up between their legs. When I got my period for the first time, I thought there was no way in hell I was ever going to use a tampon. I assumed, mistakenly, that my virginal state would make tampon insertion impossible and painful and even add bloody insult to injury. I was already losing what felt like gallons of blood. Why did I want to lose even more? Pads were just easier and less physically and emotionally traumatic.

My mom, being the cheap-ass bitch she was, made my sisters and I use the free pads she stole from the health clinic where she worked. They were roughly the size of a two by four and were attached by safety, not diaper, pins to an elastic belt that went around your waist. There was no disguising the fact that I was smuggling a jumbo sanitary napkin in my acid wash jeans while all my friends were sporting the new and modern adhesive pads, some of which even had wings to prevent that annoying side panty staining. Thank God at least all our pants in the 80’s were high-waisted so you couldn’t see that thick belt; nowadays girls can even buy thong panty liners, but in my prime pad wearing days, they were all bricks of cotton. I consoled myself with the fact that my grandmother probably had to wear a small sheep in her knickers, and therefore it could have been worse. After a couple of months of trying to play soccer while running with my knees squeezed together tightly, kicking from below the knee like I had crapped my pants, I decided I was ready to give tampons a try.

The truth is, once you get the hang of a tampon, it’s like a magician’s trick revealed, no more mystery. By the time I attempted my first tampon, I had practically memorized the instructional insert (ha ha, I said insert!) that came in the Tampax box. I assumed I could figure out my va-jay-jay from my asterisk by feel, and discovered that as long as I shoved it up there far enough, I couldn’t feel it at all. It’s kind of like wearing a contact lens, only you don’t stick a tampon in your eye. You shouldn’t know it’s there unless there is a problem.

For women who don’t like tampons, well, maybe they can’t grasp the idea of sticking something in their cooter and keeping it there for a few hours. Maybe someone should invent a nostril tampon for soaking up that pesky nasal drip which flows so freely during cold and flu season. If people walked around with a white string hanging out of their noses, maybe they would be more comfortable with the idea of cotton plugs stuffed into other orifices.

Which brings me to last weekend, when I visited my sister, LM, and her family, while I had my own monthly visitor. I borrowed a tampon from my sister (I took one, actually, since I had no intention of returning it used). She buys store brand tampons to save a little money but they are not the same thing as a Tampax at all. I wouldn’t say that money is no object, but certain things are definitely better name brand. Cereal is one, toilet paper is another, and tampons, definitely worth the extra expense.

Later that day, I took the kids to Target and decided to treat my sister to a box of the good stuff. When we got home, I surprised LM with her gift, which delighted her, because what is a more thoughtful gift than a free box of tampons? It wasn’t enough for me to just treat her, though; I wanted her to really understand why Tampax was the best choice for her snatch.

I took a tampon out of the box and said to her,” Here, let me show you something.”

My twelve year old nephew, SM, looked up from the table where he was diagramming Middle Earth or creating an alternate universe or something. “Hey SM, you wanna see what a tampon looks like?”

Sensing he was in a safe place, free from judgment, he nodded his assent and scampered over to the counter next to my sister. My older daughter, E, materialized at the very moment that I unsheathed the tampon from its paper wrapper.

“Mom, what are you doing?!?” E shrieked in horror.

“I’m showing your aunt why Tampax is better than generic. Oh, and I’m also showing SM. It’s not like he will have this opportunity any time again in the near future.”

I proceeded to elaborate to my sister how the applicator (which really, let’s face it, should be called a plunger) is tapered for comfort, with little finger grips for easier plungability, and how the tampon itself has an extra little absorbent skirt to catch any inopportune drips.

My nephew, who didn’t think he was going to actually see a tampon up close and personal, said, “Okay, I’ve seen enough,” and went back to the table and his fantasy world.

“God, Mom, you are so embarrassing!” E moaned.

“Why? It’s not like I inserted it here in the kitchen. I’m going to do that now, but in the bathroom instead. Wanna watch?” I asked her.

“You’re gross!” she yelled at my back as I left the room, Tampax between my fingers like a cigar.

“You’ve got to learn sometime!” I called over my shoulder to her.

At least I didn’t tell her about how I used Playtex brand tampons, with their blooming action, as Christmas tree decorations when I was in college. They made the perfect bells. Nor did I tell her about how my roommate BL invented “pooning,” a sport which involved flinging a wet Playtex tampon (Playtex was the official sponsor of the college snatch) against a wall some distance away, making a satisfying thwock noise as it stuck to the wall. I don’t remember how we scored. The object of the game may have been just to throw tampons at the wall. Regardless, those stories are for another day, when I need another occasion to embarrass the crap out of her.