Back in 1989, in seventh grade and changing classes every hour and having lockers:
|And having braces and discovering vintage Star Trek and finally getting that Esprit item...|
I got my first period.
Even though I had three older sisters and a mom, I wasn't asking any questions, because as "they" so clearly explained to me, your period is a terrifying gushing blast of red blood that will attract dogs and bears and have you holed up inside your house with the curtains drawn for 5-7 days, sitting on a giant pad, beating yourself in lamentation. In other words, when you get it you'll know.
And so when I had a week of what appeared in my underwear to be the remnants of a bunch of juicy farts because of their hint of a faint brownness I didn't think anything of it. But then eventually of course the brown turned into red. I was pretty humiliated, and then finally confessed to my older sister Kelly, explaining to her that "I thought it was just juicy farts!" At her behest, I put on this gigantic wingless maxi and got about the business of being a woman.
At school the next day, I felt sure that everybody was going to "know". The pads in those days were so huge and I didn't have any pad-hiding pants. But I put on my longest shirt and didn't tuck it in and hoped for the best. I was especially worried about Paul Pilfer. That's not his real name, (I don't want the poor guy to Google himself and find this story out here on the Internet! He's a military dentist now for Gosh sakes!) but it's pretty close to his real name. Change the P in the last name to an H and you've got it! Anyway, he and I grew up with our lockers next to each other what with our last names being so close alphabetically. And this was at that age where he and I would friendly-but-flirtily goof on each other. For example, when I was on one knee getting my books or a backpack out of the bottom of my locker, and Paul was standing at his locker, I would elbow him in the butt, and vice versa.
You can probably see where I'm going here.
My first day being a woman at school, I got to my locker and there was Paul Pilfer (except his last name begins with an 'H'), down on one knee. I prayed he wouldn't do it. I begged.
Of course he did it. And got me right square in the pad. And to this very day, some 25 years later I can still hear in my mind the very audible *scwintch* sound it made.