Men are heroic saints.
They are the stabilizing keel that keeps the boat aligned.
The unwavering tracks for the crazy train to run along.
For the most part, we are simple creatures. When we are hungry we eat. When we are tired we sleep. The only time we want to discuss anything to do with the menstrual cycle is… never.
Yet, I live in fear. I know it is only a matter of time before the female body kicks into action and I will have five relatives of Aunt Flow sitting around the house waiting to pounce on me and discuss something. I want them to know that there is nobody in the world that simultaneously loves them more than life yet wants to know absolutely zero about their bodily goings-on.
But I do know.
I hear all about it. Supermom has taken my disinterest as a personal challenge to educate me. I’ve been to the monthly mountaintop and seen the lay of the land. It is worse than I thought.
I remember the good old days when the only things I was aware of were tampons and pads. I knew they had been designed for bullet hole wounds during one of the World Wars and someone looked at it sideways and said, “Huh…” Now they range in absorbency from drizzle to deluge. Then one day Supermom said, “Hey look at this.” And I did. It looked like the top off the laundry detergent dispenser. I was told, “It is called a soft cup.” Something like an upside down hat for your cervix.
This device has some practicality. If my roof is leaking then I put a bucket underneath it until the rain stops. Same principle. The only difference is that I don’t have to reach into my vagina to dump the bucket. This is where the method loses some appeal. Supermom insists that I make too big a deal over this stuff and that men are squeamish. I posed a simple question, “If I were to spit into a cup for several hours and let it build up and then I handed it to you, would you be uncomfortable or super interested in how the cup holds the spit without spilling it?” There is just a fundamental mismatch in life experience. If I fart in earshot she says it is gross but somehow talking about discharging placental potting soil is socially acceptable. Women don’t seem to understand.
“What is the big deal? Why do you not want to talk about this?”
“Imagine that you go to the park and you really enjoy the slide but occasionally someone has been murdered on the slide and it is blocked off with caution tape. The police tell you all the grisly details about how the serial killer painted the slide with his victims insides but then says don’t worry it will be better in a few days. Sure you are still going to slide because it is fun but you don’t want to think about the murder every time you go to the park.”
Apparently that little parable didn’t carry the point.
We had another discussion recently against my will. Apparently technology is marching this convenience issue forward. There are now special fabrics that have the super power of being bled into directly while making the wearer feel sexy. I think it is woven from the hair of vampires and sewn into Harry Potter’s cloak of invisibility. What black magic is this you ask? They are called Thinx and have all the high technology of quilted Charmin.
From what I can understand through the muffled words making it past my fingers jammed in my ears, the pants are basically pull-ups for women. The only obstacle I see is similar to the reusable diaper problem. Diapers have to be changed regularly but you don’t want to waste water doing a load of laundry for two garments. The diapers would be rinsed out and stored in a bucket for a day or two which is really effective at setting the piss smell in cotton. Tea tree oil knocks that right out. The only downside is that everything starts to smell like tea tree oil which reminds me that it should smell like piss which has the strange effect of making me feel the exact same. Are these super panties destined to smell like an essential oil?
Also I found a disturbing info graphic that I wanted to share with everyone.
If you get sucked into these conversations with your significant other, this post is for you. You’re welcome. Happy Mother’s Days.
-Underdaddy to the rescue.