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spilled red paintYou guys, we need to talk, and it might not be pretty.

If you are squeamish in any way, are eating while you read this, or happen  to have been raised in the south, you might find this post a bit, shall we say, MUCH.

Ok, if you’ve read this far, there is a good possibility that we get each other, which is great because I could use a little help here.

Since preschool, I have considered myself a professional when it comes to my bodily functions. I never wet the bed, spewed milk out my nose in the lunchroom, and never once, in three sexually active decades, did I have an unwanted pregnancy scare. But now I find myself at fifty, completely confused by my own female body.

To show you what I mean, I’ll share a conversation I had with my friend Jo Dee, just yesterday:

I’m leaving brunch at a friend’s house. I had to leave earlier than I had planned and I’m not happy about it. Walking to my car, I call her.

“Hey,” she answers. What’s up?”

“Oh, just bleeding on myself.” I’m referring to my near constant state of menstruation, since peri-menapause came a-knockin’ about six months ago. “You know, it’s the new normal. I’m going home to change.”

“Poor thing. And also, ew.”

“I know. Am I supposed to just always wear a pantyliner now? Is that what people do?” I can’t believe I even have to ask.

“I think so,” JoDee answers, but not in a way that inspires confidence. “I guess?” She adds.

Yeah, I’m on my own here.

I sit in my car, with the air conditioner cranked and pointing directly at my sweaty face. “My body is totally different suddenly. I’m having to learn so much,” I tell her. “And I’m buying all these new things, like I have all kinds of tampons now. I have a whole collection, a cornucopia of choices, for every possible situation. It’s ridiculous. They make one kind now, which I’m sure is for ladies in the home stretch like myself, that is huge— it’s like the size of a hamster. For those special days.”

I need to get home and assess the damage to my cute new jeans, but I’m not ready yet. I need to talk right now. As I scrounge under the car seat for a bag of almonds or an old fortune cookie, I imagine JoDee and I in our own Red Tent. We would sit on the straw, sharing stories and binge watching Transparent right on through our moon cycle, emerging only when we were ready to pick up our work again. The caring for the children, the doing of the things. The taking of fish oil and B supplements.

“I just want to have a place to ask the nitty gritty questions,” I say, tearing into an old fruit roll-up. “I want practical tips. How to’s.”

“You want to know if you’re always supposed to wear a panty liner.”

“Exactly! I want “Are You There God, Its Me, Margaret for grownups.”

I start the car and head for home, remembering what it was like to be eleven.

Twelve.

Having seen the educational films in health class, and the string that hung between my mother’s legs, I knew what was coming and had a vague idea of what to do.

Sort of.

I had a package of thick pads and a pair of plastic underpants with metal clips that seemed too sharp to wear next to a place so soft. I stole a box of tampons and studied the package insert, chewing on a lock of my hair as I looked at that cartoon of a see-through girl standing sideways.

I needed more.

I needed instructions from the women who could instruct, and embraces from the women who could embrace. When I was eleven, I looked to Judy Blume and the older girls at my summer camp. Somehow I pieced it all together.

It’s harder now.

Im a grown-ass woman. I expect myself to know better.

But I’m as awkward as I was back then. I know it will be fine, perfect, even, to unfurl the way nature made me. But the sun is hot, and I am not in control of this.

And maybe, it could also be…that I know what comes after blooming.

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