A Very Bad Idea

A lesson I learned the hard way today: Never, ever ask a man to buy feminine hygiene products on your behalf.

You would think this would go without saying. Or at least, that I would have clued in to it a long time ago. Alas, no.

A few months back, when I was getting low on pads and R was heading to the grocery store, I asked him to pick up another package for me. What kind? he asked. You know, the kind I usually get – with wings, I replied. After all, he’s got a good memory for detail, and he’s been seeing them in our bathroom cabinet for the past 10 years.

He did not come back with the standard length, ultra thin pads I normally buy. Instead, he brought me a package of extra super long, triple thick pads. They are ones that, were I ever to find myself on a sinking ship, could serve quite nicely as a lifeboat. For me and about four other people.

However, they did have the wings I requested, and the ultra-shy R was very proud that he managed to survive the checkout process without passing out from mortification, so I simply took them from him, offered effusive praise for his ability to buy the kind with wings, stuck them in the cabinet and quietly went out a few days later to buy the ones I normally use.

I was running low again recently, and not being one to make the same mistake twice – at least not this same mistake – I planned to stop by the store again soon. I figured I still had some time, as my last cycle (if you can call a small amount of light spotting a "cycle") was less than three weeks ago.

My PCOS-plagued ovaries have never really been a fan of the whole 28-day cycle concept, usually finding it entirely too taxing to cough up an egg that frequently. This time, though, they apparently sensed that I was out of supplies and decided to have a little fun with me, because cycle day 1 has made an early, rare, non-drug-coaxed appearance.

And the only thing I had left in the cabinet was the package of lifeboats. Thank God for baggy pants.