Monday, December 17
I think every woman has a pair of panties in her drawer reserved especially for her period days. The ones I automatically reached for every 3 weeks or so were full-coverage, blue with pink strawberries. They were like my period security blanket, I instinctively grabbed them in anticipation of menstrual bat-shit crazy time.
This month, I looked down and to my dismay, saw my hand through the fabric. My underwear had gotten so old and threadbare that I could actually see my fingers peering through. Not that I couldn't have trashed them sooner. There had been two, I counted, two holes gaping at me. But still, I was loathe to throw them out. One more period I said to myself.
Even though I always nag my husband about his torn boxers, I never really think of my own undergarments. Until they jump out at me and say, I'm done. I've done my job. Too well. Time to get rid of me. Once and for all.
So I did. I took them out to the backyard, tossed them into the fire pit and gave them the memorial burning they deserved. My blue strawberry panties weathered quite a lot over the years and for their loyalty, I honored those period-stained, tattered underpants with a moment of silence. And some laughter.
Goodbye dear friend. I'll miss your comfort, but I don't think I'll miss the ventilation.