Kavita Nair joined as the first female product manager at Vodafone. And she has never…Read More →
There are a lot of ‘P’ words which lead to premature ventricular contractions in our heart, but one such word which almost gives me a mini heart attack is no other than our ‘Aunt Flo’.
No, I’m not talking about Pizza, Popsicles or Proenza Schouler. But about our monthly menstrual cycles also commonly called periods.
Just like the first blossoms of daffodils every spring, our satanic Niagara Falls, without fail, also show us their bloody flows every month. Cue the ugly stomach cramps, almost frightening to death pimples, crying jags, intense mood swings and constant headaches. In ‘male-terminology’, women are almost like a bloody homicidal maniacs running around the house in their Victoria secret Pj’s. These are the days of mourning and the P-word is considered as horrifying as dropping a big blob of ketchup on our favourite cashmere sweater.
Considering that half of the population (some would argue one-third) of the world is experiencing it at any one time- why, these monthly customer visits from ‘Aunt Flo’ such a taboo?
So much so, that it’s sudden mention in a conversation on the dinner table can lead to a tumbleweed moment of all tumbleweed moments with pale faces, shushing tones and awkward glances.
People seem to have forgotten the fact that it is this particular biological function of churning out eggs every month, which enable us to give birth to specimens like themselves. Hence, suggesting that menstruating women are unclean is suggesting that women are unclean, period, if you’ll forgive the pun.
The millions of lint that destroy our most prized Burberry coat are much more magnanimous than our superfluous society, who, are still living under the shadow of an orthodox web of lies which are nothing less than a bout of religious jargon.
To be noted. It’s not only the pestilential pubescent who is petrified of the purple demon making an appearance from the tiny pockets of their Kipling bag, but also, women who have been dealing with this plague for decades have a minor stroke with its accidental fall. The reaction of the onlooker is as if he has seen Isabella Blow pop out of somewhere. Scary, I know.
What is even scarier is the multiple layers of protection the whisper packet is given on purchase- a layer of newspaper gift-wrap, followed by ugly brown paper bags and finally a black plastic packet.
Huff! Take a higher road people, it’s not a bomb!
It’s even more protection than the actual sanitary napkins provide. Funny right? If you think it’s such a luxury, why not give it in a LV Neverfull tote. At least we’ll all be happy, wont we?
The constant struggle of mixing your polka dots with your ‘Aunt Dots’ leaves us all in a state of perturbation. For centuries, menstrual cycle and fashion are not terms, which are spoken, in a harmonious sync. The happiness of one cannot be bared by the happiness of the other. The accessories subsequently following the former not being an addition to the latter in any form whatsoever. It’s almost like a perennial mattress between your legs, although provides protection and comfort, but is nothing more than a fashion hindrance.
Unfortunately for me, fortunately for them, they always leave me in a state of mourning. Not because of the several hormonal and emotional effects it brings and neither because of its ability to transform us into an inbred hillbilly with knife skills, rather because of the subtle manner in which it ruins my Cara Delevingne image. Reminiscing the fond memory of my ripped Topshop white pants, the cute super-expensive La Senza briefs, and the insides of my Prada Saffiano bag lined with those ugly purple packets, they always leave me wishing ‘why only us’?
Decades of constant bickering and nagging, and several gloomy afternoons later, the reality has finally sunk in. You cannot and you will not get rid of them, neither the taboo they bring along, baring the fact that you indulge in some serious voodoo tactics and witchcraft, which I doubt, is highly unlikely. So, be kind to yourself and wear whatever you feel like. Don’t let them guilt you into not going to that party you have been waiting for ages to go to. Moreover, don’t let the society judge you for what is a basic human function, which is not in your hands. Be proud, rather, flaunt it. Let us show them that ‘we’ girls aren’t scared of them.
In the end, what’s the least that could happen?
You, ending up in your comfy pajamas with ‘The Notebook’, playing on Netflix, a jar of Belgian chocolate chip ice-cream in your hand and loads of chocolates wrappers filling your bed. Well, I don’t mind that either.