"That Time"

The other night, I heard Erin moaning and groaning about something in the other room. Since I'm a thoughtful husband and a good listener, I turned down the TV long enough to make sure she wasn't in the throws of death, and then I returned to "America's Got Talent" in hopes of seeing Hasselhoff finally make a pass at one of the dancers during their routine. Erin eventually made her way through the room, briefly blocking my view of the television, and entered the bathroom. The moans continued.

Then it hit me. I looked at my watch, checked my calendar in Outlook, and then took cover. It was "that time." Oy vey. How did I let this slip up on me?

You see, I've always had a somewhat unnatural fear of "that time." Sometime around 3rd or 4th grade, my grandmother, knowing that I was a lover of good fiction, purchased me a copy of Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret for Christmas. I didn't realize what I held in my hands after opening it on Christmas Eve in front of my cousins and parents. (If you're unfamiliar with this delightful coming of age tale, please click on this link for a summary.)

It didn't take long until I hit the words "belted sanitary napkin" and immediately realized that my well meaning grandmother had not given me a present for Christmas, rather an unwelcome insight into the horrors of pre-teen womanhood that no boy should experience.

My mom discreetly removed the book from my presence (I'm sure she and my dad had a good howl over its content), and I passed on further Judy Blume literature during elementary school.

Later in life, I encountered "that time" again during gym class. Apparently saying that it was "that time" was a "get out of jail" free card during swim time. I didn't understand why, but during swim class, there was always a row of girls who'd played this card and weren't being forced to tread water for 35 minutes or lock arms and do synchronized swimming routines with the dude later voted "most likely to pee in the pool."

In high school it occurred to me that many of the girls in my class were apparently somehow super human, as their cycles ticked along at a much higher rate than normal women. Many of them had "that time" four times a month, or at least it appeared so based on their lack of swimming participation.

Now that I'm married, and none the wiser, I have many useful coping mechanisms for "that time." Almost all of them involve me leaving the house and being able to deftly avoid a punch. I feel badly for Erin. It really is a curse what she goes through. The other night she commented that it's really not fair. The only reason to endure the misery is to produce biological children, and since that hasn't happened, fairness would seem to dictate that she get a free pass much like the girls during swimming in gym class.

So I guess our prayer should be, "Dear God. Erin's bakery is on fire. Again. Please either drop some bread in the basket or turn off the ovens. Thanks. Amen."