- Time is not your friend when you’re seeping blood from your “down there.” Even ten minutes too long can lead to many of the things on the list above, and also to odors that are not the most pleasant. The fact that this happens just leads to more worry and more constant thought about it everywhere you go.
- Sometimes when you think your “down there” has finally stopped seeping blood, it suddenly comes back with a vengeance and you are rarely fully prepared for it when it does.
- While your “down there” is seeping blood, you miss out on some social events because you just don’t want to try juggling both your bleeding “down there” and the worry that there will be no access to public restrooms while you’re out.
- While your “down there” is seeping blood, the same four words inadvertently push past your lips at least 2,000 times every day. “Just stop bleeding already!” And the five words “how is this still happening?!” can be heard almost as often.
- Your “down there” seeping blood is a topic that deserves discussion, because no human should ever have to bleed from their “down theres,” yet the topic makes many people extremely uncomfortable. So… you generally keep your misery to yourself so that you can keep your friends.
- While your “down there” is seeping blood heavily, you tend to just not want anyone near you. You don’t want to be touched. You don’t want anyone to know. You just want to fast forward time and pretend that this part of your life never happened.
- And finally (for this list, anyway)… While your “down there” is seeping blood, you don’t want other people (who have never experienced their own “down theres” seeping blood) to give you advice about it. You don’t want to hear their suggestions. You don’t want to be told it’s not something you should worry about. You really don’t want to be told that it’s disgusting. You don’t want the person you love, or who you’re dating, or your friends treating you like the next great plague. And while it didn’t happen to me, I can assure you that if you are seeping blood from your “down there,” and you aren’t in the mood to be intimate, you really don’t want to hear the words, “it really doesn’t bother me. Let’s get it on anyway!”
Oh, the things guys don’t know.
Where was I? Oh, yes. Shopping for my own maxi-pads.
SHOPPING TRIP #1:
I paced by the maxi-pad aisle several times. Not wanting to enter. Waiting for the coast to be completely clear.
‘Round about the sixteenth time the aisle emptied, I finally found my courage and entered.
What. The. Eff.
Have you ever noticed just how BIG the section of the store is for these things? I was at Target. It took up an entire aisle, both sides. That’s a lot of real estate.
I immediately became overwhelmed. So many colors. So many words. So many kinds. So many brands. I knew only this: I was bleeding from my “down there.” I needed help. I knew enough to know I needed pads not tampons. And I needed to get out of that aisle, and out of that store, as soon as humanly possible.
I saw the word “super” on one package and reached for it. The generic package next to it was five dollars cheaper and also said “super.” I grabbed the cheap one and bolted the other way just as a mom with two kids in her cart entered the aisle.
I buried the pads under a bunch of crap I was only buying to cover up the pads (maxi-pads can’t be the only thing I have in my cart, come on), and I made the purchase, acting nonchalant, hoping the checkout lady would just assume I was doing a good deed and buying them for a woman in my life. She was classy and pretended she didn’t even notice. I know what she was thinking. This poor schmuck.
Lesson I would learn soon after: You get what you pay for with maxi-pads. Cheap maxi-pads mean that the cheap adhesive sticks to your undies and never comes off.
ALSO… not all maxi-pads are shaped the same or serve the same purpose. My mom had brought me these thin, really nice ones. I assumed all maxi-pads were like that. What I quickly grabbed that day looked more like giant foam burritos. They would never work because… who wants to look like he’s walking around with a saggy burrito in the back of his pants. If you’re actually pondering your response to this: the answer is nobody. Nobody. Not even complete whack-jobs want to look like they have a saggy burrito in their pants.
The same day I bought those pads, I went home and put one in my undies (I had no choice, the others had run out), I put on the baggiest pair of sweatpants I owned, and I went back to the store to get new pads.
Little did I know my adventures were far from over.