Love, Humor

Dear stealth period, you’ve ruined every pair of underwear I’ve ever loved

I have a set of underwear specifically designated for wearing during The Bloodening.

I have a stealth period.

It’s a real thing and it ruins cute underwear without discretion or remorse. What’s a stealth period? You ask. Before you go searching for that in WebMD, allow me to illuminate you.

It starts with no warning. But cramps, you say. No. My cramps don’t start until after my period does. Sounds great, right? Because I get to skip the PMS horrors? Not quite. I get other symptoms including migraines and dysphoric depression – which is obviously super fun. My cramps start after the blood gates open and they’re just as unpleasant as one could hope for.

omg, that’s gonna give me nightmares.

“But the calendar,” you say. Sure, I have a rough estimate of when it’s going to begin, but it could be anywhere within a three-day range and I detest my blood-blocking options so intensely that I’m not going to walk around wearing a pad or plugging myself up ‘just in case’. Tampons are, well, let’s just say uncomfortable. Pads are tiny diapers that don’t stay in place. The cup, as alluring as it sounds, seems a bit too technically challenging for me to master. I’m 100% in support of free bleeding, but my wardrobe couldn’t take the hit.

[bctt tweet=”What’s a stealth period? You ask. Allow me to illuminate you.”]

I gave up on white undies long, long ago. Which is fine, I guess, because let’s face it I’m white enough as it is. And forget about pastels. I’m pretty much relegated to dark colors, black, and charcoal gray (wow, never thought you’d hear so much about my underpants, I bet.

I’m pretty much relegated to dark colors, black and charcoal gray (wow, never thought you’d hear so much about my underpants, I bet. Please Carly, drop some more unmentionables knowledge on us. Sure, of course, because I care). But even that hasn’t saved the top drawer of my dresser from housing a collection of uniformly stained undergarments.

Of course, somehow the blemishes still show up, though faintly, even on the darker colors. Yes, even some super cute jammies have fallen victim to my sneaky period’s ruthless attacks.

But even that hasn’t saved the top drawer of my dresser from housing a collection of uniformly stained undergarments. Of course, somehow the blemishes still show up, though faintly, even on the darker colors. Yes, even some super cute jammies have fallen victim to my sneaky period’s ruthless attacks.

period’s like, “Gotchya!”

As annoying as the unpredictable onset can be, the stealth power of my period really comes into its own at what should be – what I hope to be – the end of the ordeal. Like many sensible period-having people, I have a set of underwear specifically designated for wearing during The Bloodening.

srsly though.

Just when I think I’ve gotten free of my menstruation’s slippery grasp, it rallies and doubles back for a squishy sortie and ruins yet another pair of underoos – which usually happens to be my latest favorite. See, after several days of wearing the already trashed sets, I’m eager to get back into the ones that leave me feeling fly for the day (I seriously cannot tell you how much my undergarments contribute to my confidence and self-assurance. It’s at least as much as my actual outfit, probably more). I’ll give it a good 12 hours or so of wearing a ‘just-in-case’ pad or pantyliner which inevitably crinkles and wads up (so comfy) and then I’m feeling like “Hey, what the hell, must be over.” Oh how wrong you are, sweet thing. I’ll go ahead and liberate my nether regions from the awkward discomfort of clumped up cotton. Things will be all good for a few hours, maybe even the rest of the day. But, without fail, that hallway-elevator scene from The Shining plays out in my pants.

[bctt tweet=”But, without fail, that hallway-elevator scene from The Shining plays out in my pants.”]

I’ve almost gotten myself all prepared for just hoping that it will be dark anytime someone might see my skivvies. But it’s really not about anyone who may come into contact with them (those occasions are, admittedly, er, infrequent), it’s about me knowing that some of the things that make me feel freshest and prettiest are no longer anything more than tainted textiles.

Goodbye, sweet boy-cut black panties that made me feel sexier than anything, I’ll really, really miss you. Goodbye to the purple lace – you were probably too delicate for me anyway, but damn were you ever gorgeous.

Goodbye to the little blue undershorts with the little skull-and-crossbones all over that made (what exists of) my ass look amazing – you made me feel so cute and deadly, I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I’ll never forget any of you.

Rest in that heavenly trash heap where all good casualties of the monthly skirmish go.