Posted On October 20, 2014 By In Advice For Women, Girlzone

A Letter to my Uterus

 
 

Dear Uterus,

We’ve had a tumultuous thirteen-year reign. I didn’t know you existed until I was marred by the woes of your lining shedding that made me wish I had a penis post-sixth grade graduation. We both know it’s unoriginal for a woman to rant about her period blood and this stigma is especially evident in the same world I whine about upper management at my company being men. So dear Uterus, I hope you appreciate the hypocrisy I am engaging in to pursue this letter to you. Thank you for the years of being present for sexual activity on a variety of surfaces and allowing nary an embryo to implant itself. This would have been especially inconvenient when I was pro-life senior year of high school, to the dismay of my lesbian, jeep driving AP government teacher.

Now, it’s 10:04am on a Hump Day and while I wait for the four ibuprofen to kick in I simultaneously attempt to be grateful for both my potential future children and for not being with child. It seemed unlikely that an individual would become pregnant from partaking in the pull-out method once or thrice. Until their roommate has an abortion. Until their best friend doesn’t know she’s pregnant until she’s six months pregnant now has the cutest child in the world.  Just so you know, that “moment” that high school teachers and protective mother have referred to since 1964 exists.

That “moment,” of course, is when you’ve disregarded your tequila shot limit and go from being 97% clothed to naked in 7.2 seconds on account of donning a leotard.  And then a lovely, mustached creature is on top of you doing things that feel better than a chipotle burrito in an empty stomach (not to sound too graphic).  And your alcohol soaked self-talk sounds a little like “He was with his last girlfriend for most of my twenties so he doesn’t have at STD, I just got off of my period so I’m not even ovulating, and sex…”

We both know this is not good, Uterus. My sincerest thanks to you for bestowing cramps on me this Hump Day instead of a tardy period. I’m holding a mason jar of tea on you (from the outside) at my desk because the tilted angle you reside in intensifies cramps in a mother fucking horrible way. The most natural pain alleviating position for cramps is to be on your hands and knees, doggy style-esque, and even though my office is dog friendly I feel uncomfortable doing this.

Although I thank you for your existence and for not embracing an embryo the way that you biologically inclined to do, I need to tell you it is challenging to have a work meeting when you’re inspiring me to loathe everyone. Even the ones I love normally. Someone whistles and I want to gouge out his eye with a sharpie pen. Someone else talks about their date last night and I fume in the idiocy that is their general being and embellished ailments. I pray for the soul who tells me my hair is sticking up and if one more person doesn’t move when I am trying to toast my bagel I will snap in a murdered-with-a-butter-knife sort of way.

What I really need is for us to be quarantined for a few days.  Just me, you and the Beyoncé documentary while I cry because the last text message emoticon I received wasn’t enough for me.

Keep in touch,

Allyson

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Equally lovely and ferocious in nature, Allyson Darling resides in San Francisco. She writes nonfiction essays about sex, relationships, and pantries (and sometimes about having sex in pantries).

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