I was about to log my period when it hit me: someday I’ll be an older woman, and my period will be long gone, and I’ll think, “I remember how much I hated that damn period app, and now I miss it.”

I stood in my kitchen and marked my thought by saying out loud, “I will miss doing this.” as I tapped the blood drop icon to mark the day as light, medium, or heavy.

Periods are COMEDY GOLD. I’m sorry, but they are. I know they can be more of a dark comedy, maybe even a major drama. I also know I’m covering the topic lightly here, because periods come with a lot of pain (emotionally and physically) for many women.

Before I drastically changed my diet (limited alcohol and sugar), I had a PMDD (Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder) diagnosis. I was even on SSRIs for a time. A quick summary of PMDD: you live for the insanely short-lived follicular phase, and spend the luteal phase wishing you were dead.

So if you’re reading this post as a woman (with scathing eyes and a clenched jaw over any perceived dismissal), I promise: I know the bad parts. I just desperately have to cling to the good stuff sometimes.

And the good stuff, all packed neatly in a blood-soaked diary? Can be hilarious and beautiful and part of our human experience. It’s a full-body emotional and biological purge.

I have two favorite period stories. I’m only going to tell you one.

If you know my other period story, I’m sorry.

It happened many moons ago, when I was in a friend’s wedding. It was the rehearsal dinner in a private room at The Columbia in Ybor City. For reference, my period is the most predictable, goddess-like thing. I could boop her nose. She comes when my app says she comes. She is a flawless 25-day cycle, and she never stays with me more than three days.

You can imagine my surprise when she arrived two days early.

I was seated across from perfect strangers, having a lovely conversation, when I felt that familiar sensation. Except instead of the usual tentative, sweet cooing of “Hi, I’m here, darling girl. Go to the bathroom when you have a moment.”

She was screaming, “HOLY SHIT, GIRL. GO. GO. GO. MOVE.”

I was wearing this black satin midi dress (thank god) with creamy white magnolias on it. Unfortunately, I’d coordinated it with creamy white microsuede heels. I got up and glanced at the seat cushion (which, regrettably, was also a light taupe floral pattern *is there no GOD?!*), and to my horror, there was my blood. I threw my napkin on it dramatically, pushed in the chair, and tried to make a beeline for the restroom, until the bride’s father stopped me.

I love this man, but I have no idea what he was saying to me because I could feel the blood oozing down my right leg and pooling into and over my goddamn creamy white shoe.

Every girl with a regular period knows: the first day does not do this. It’s not a pop-in stranger who shows up wielding an axe! It’s a friend who texts a few days early and says, “Hey, I was gonna stop by real quick to drop something off.”

When I finally got away, I wobble-ran for the bathroom, but I remember when I got in there and locked the door behind me, the first thing I noticed was all the paper towels were used up. Which meant I had to attend to the situation (a bloody thigh and calf and shoes) with public-restroom-quality toilet paper.

Cleaning blood off of flesh with toilet paper is… not ideal. Throwing away your underwear is… not ideal. Wondering what to do with a bloody shoe? Also not ideal.

That shoe was destroyed. I still remember what it was like to take it off and clean the underside of my foot, all while keeping my sense of humor and saying that line from Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion with Mira Sorvino’s exact intonation.

The way that night wrapped up, I’ll never forget. The other bridesmaids all huddled around me as we left, laughing hysterically. Telling the waiter I’d pay for the damage on the chair if needed (they didn’t ask me to). Throwing away those heels once I was back in my room.

It’s a story that makes an otherwise potentially forgettable night deeply memorable. Absolutely, unquestionably seared in my memory. And guess what? I don’t remember the shame at all.

I’m thankful for that, because I want to remember things.

I want to remember it all.

_{^{(Daily Writing 050) (I felt like this was an appropriate 50th piece for my 2025 goal)}}