I recognize that in the grand scheme of bodily bliss, our menstrual cycles and the nature of their stopping in, right on time, every month is a sizable gift to female humanity. I’m as excited as the next guy (f.) that my body–the temple of which candy corn is consumed and bile is released–can one day harbor a real life kid that will come into this world and have to deal with the anxieties of knowing that I am its mother.
“Where is my vagina?” He will ask. “No, no, son. I have a vagina, you have a mangina.” I will retort.
But in what feels like the perennial current, the gift in question, my period, is more like one decidedly obnoxious asshole with intentions I don’t trust as far as I can throw them. She stains my thighs, my ego, bruises my ovaries from the outside in, forces chocolate down my throat and never so much as pretends she’s even slightly sorry.
One of the most valuable lessons my mother taught me suggested the importance of removing myself from environments that may conjure worse versions of me. When one has infiltrated my existence so thoroughly though, prompting particular preparations with every looming experience, what’s a girl to do?
Ah, yes, just ride the wave. The crimson wave.
Feeling good isn’t easy. Hormones functioning as overactive gazelles and the fucking pimple that seemingly finds the most conspicuous spot on my chin to reappear as an affirmation to the Nile River’s relocation every single time, makes it considerably harder.
Experience has taught me that fashio can help medicate many situations. Not succumbing to the pressure of feeling forced to wear yoga pants (the popularization of this term is Vancouver’s contribution to my lexicon) in order to aid an aching stomach and bleeding vagina feels liberating. Instead: tight white pants. They’re hard to accept on even the skinniest of days but when I am least inclined to wear them is when they’re most resourceful.
Forcing self-confidence is a very real thing.
See? Six hours deep in flow, that’s a smile you can’t make up. I am just like, “Haha, this is so funny, so what if my pants are white? I have always enjoyed tie dye. They’re not buttoning right now, but my shirt is large enough to mask that, hooray.”
A moment for sausage making: this was going to be a story about dressing like Emanuelle Alt or any other incessantly chic women of the French v
ariety but then I got my period, made like Drake and YOLOed. Looking back, the red lip seems very meta.
Rebecca Minkoff Theo jacket, Comme des Garcons mens white button up, Paige denim jeans (They’ve got this uncanny ability to narrow the width of my legs,) Isabel Marant booties and Chanel lipstick, flavor: Pirate.
Go on, beat your period to the fruit punch. Photos by Naomi Shon