F*ck You, Aunt Flo
You have long overstayed your welcome
“You’ll be done any time now,” my friend promised. “After all, you’re in your forties.”
Well, that was years ago, and now at 51, my period is still hanging on for dear life, like a dead, decaying albatross attached to my neck with a titanium rope.
I’m not sure I’ll ever be rid of this bitch. But a friend of mine finally got done with hers in her late fifties, so maybe there’s still hope. I would say we can part as friends, but she was never a friend to me, despite the “monthly friend” designation my mother euphemistically had given her.
Worst. Aunt. Ever.
My grandmother affectionately called menstruation “Aunt Flo,” and before I knew any better, I was excited to meet her. After all, after reading Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret., every girl I knew couldn’t wait to get her period because we all thought it would make us mature, and move one step toward being the amazing women we dreamt of becoming.
Or maybe we were all just insane.
What Judy Blume didn’t tell me was, Aunt Flo is a cruel companion at best, an abject asshole at worst. The beloved author never told me I’d be doubled over in pain at my desk during history class, making my teacher think I was sleeping. She didn’t tell me…
