Surviving Shark Week

 

I feel strongly that women have the potential to be the most successful drug dealers on earth. I do not condone dealing by any means however, women do possess a unique set of experience and skills that qualify us for such a position. Allow me to paint you a picture of what I mean…

A nervous teen twitches uncomfortably in her seat. Terror covers her face along with an array of hormonal acne. Her eyes dart around the room seeking her target. A middle-aged woman with a Mary Poppins purse might have the goods the teen seeks. Reluctantly the young girl shuffles toward the woman and whispers in her ear. The woman nods knowingly and swiftly reaches into her giant bag. Faster than a bullet out of a barrel, the woman shoves an item into the teen’s hand. The embarassed girl blushes deeply, mumbles an awkward thanks, discretely folds her arms, and scurries out of the room. 

If you haven’t caught on yet, I’ll let you in on the secret. The drug deal I just described was the expertly performed “Transfer of the Tampon”. Women have spent centuries perfecting the tampon pass off and inventing covert hiding spots for the little demons. Drop one accidentally out of your purse and we all have an instinctual urge to dive on top of it like we are saving by-standers from a live grenade. The amount of discretion we put into tampon concealment truly baffles me. Once a month the Battle of Troy goes on in our uterus and we are supposed to suffer in silence.

 

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There are women out there who handle Shark Week with class and refinement. I applaud you. I am not one of those women. I enjoy beginning Shark Week by ordering at least 2/3rds of the Del Taco menu and consuming the majority of it while driving back home. After successfully eating my body weight in beans, cheese, grease, and a chocolate shake,  I begin phase two: Continuous Crying.

On any regular day I’m an emotional gal. Toss in Shark Week and a slight breeze can bring tears to my eyes. Just so you fully understand the magnitude of what I am talking about I made a list of every reason I cried during my most recent episode.

  • My dog wasn’t giving me enough love
  • Del Taco forgot my Del Scorcho sauce and only gave me mild
  • The batteries in my TV remote died
  • A Coldplay song got stuck in my head
  • Watermelon wasn’t in season yet
  • My boyfriend sent a text without a smiley face emoticon
  • The carton of Rocky Road ice cream I was eating didn’t have enough marshmallows

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Ladies, we have hormones. We can embrace them and laugh or we can continue to hide tampons like sketchy drug dealers. I won’t get all preachy about the miracle that is our bodies or try to convince you that Shark Week isn’t terrible. It is! If anyone disagrees they can try bleeding for a week and then let me know how they feel.

Despite that time of the month being a literal pain, there are some perks. I now choose to embrace Shark Week. The box of tampons I carry to the register is a symbol of a week of freedom; freedom to eat an entire sleeve of Oreos, freedom to wear sweats to church, freedom to spend $30 on bath bombs at Lush, and freedom to cry when the Budweiser commercial with the puppy comes on. Your body is punishing you for not making a baby, at the very least you’ve earned a Snickers.

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