No, I’m not talking about the punctuation mark—that one, I’m already quite fond of, following long and run-on sentences. By periods, I mean exactly what you’re thinking: That rather sexist phenomenon that occurs once a month (give or take) as a gory form of punishment for not having buns in the oven.
That period.
And yes, I did just say I had my best one ever. (Are you reading this, SunStar? My period deserves a Best of Cebu award.)
Truth be told, that’s a statement I never imagined myself making at all. As much as that one Kim Chiu commercial tried to convince me to “Have a happy period!”, I never viewed those monthly visits as pleasant—tolerable, sure, if I don’t get monster cramps along with them. They were inconvenient at most, considering the mess they left (“Did you murder anybody today?” “No, I’m just on my period.”). Don’t even get me started on the smell.
So how is it that, at the ripe ol’ age of 27 and having dealt with periods monthly for the past 15 years, I’m now suddenly changing my tune about my female body functions? Ladies and gentlemen who have not clicked away from this post so far, I introduce to you my new best friend, Lena.
