I really hate writing disclaimers, though I feel it necessary in this situation. This is how my brain reacts when I read a ridiculous article on Twitter. If you’re offended, I’m not actually sorry. This is just how my mind works. This was written a a couple of weeks ago.
I’m twenty-four, and I’m still digesting the breakfast burrito I inhaled about five hours ago. I scroll through Twitter to find a news article about a London-based artist. She’s twenty-two, and is now famous for her period-themed bejeweled panties. There is a picture of a woman in a pair of white grannie panties with a bejeweled ruby red splotch on her vagina. There are many reasons for someone such as myself to be angry. I consider myself to be a relatively normal person, give or take. So here is my list of reasons why I’d like to punch this girl in the throat:
- Her goal was to make the menstrual cycle beautiful, so to speak. She wants to get rid of the “taboo” against menstruation to remind women they do not have to be ashamed of their bodies.
1A. I’ve never met a man or a woman who has openly told me that I’m disgusting simply because I have my period. I’d like a list of names of those who have committed this act and stick them in a fifth grade health class.
1B. I know we are supposed to be all, women unite and stuff, but no matter how normal the menstrual cycle is, it’s still gross. Raise your hand if you would be thrilled with the opportunity to bathe in a tub of menstrual blood.
I didn’t think so.
- I’m unemployed, and have been struggling to land a decent job that I’m fairly interested in. I still toss the couch cushions around to find quarters to do laundry, and use my boyfriend’s Old Spice body wash because I can’t afford to go to the store and buy my own. So, as I sit on my dirty couch waiting for this Sunday Football day to come to an end, this chick in London is making headway into the art world for placing a bunch of jewels on the crotch of panties and saying she’s making the world a better place for women.
It’s safe to say that nearly every kid in America has daydreamed about what their life will be like in their twenties. I always imagined it like Drew Barrymore in Never Been Kissed working as an undercover reporter for The Chicago Suntimes. I watched Working Girl a couple of years ago and praised Melanie Griffith for growing a pair, but I’d never wish that hair and makeup upon anyone. As a millennial, I voluntarily partake in the social media trends such as Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram for reasons I can’t seem to shake. Everyday, I see the exciting news of people I hated in high school and college as I continue to munch on Cheetos, which I still think is a respectable snack. It’s a lot of work to remind myself with each new post that it’s probably posed.
For example, a girl from high school, let’s call her Stacy, posted a photo of her friend on a rooftop overlooking New York City, mapping her location as the East Village in Manhattan. The composition of the photo was just right. The outfit was just right, and just by looking at the photo, we assume this is their place of residence; all these twenty-something girls shacking it up in an expensive apartment with a beautiful view like it’s Sex and The City. I then look around my apartment with a rickety, aged desk, no matching furniture, a bed that isn’t properly put together and a mouse living in the walls and I become depressed. At least on a clear day, you can see Catalina Island from the roof. Sort of.
I’m blessed to have my brain that reminds me of the reality of what Stacy posted. It’s very much plausible that Stacy could be living in this elegant apartment with her girlfriends, drinking wine every night and throwing dinner parties for her fancy friends. Or, she showed up to some random ass tall building, paid the elderly doorman to allow her inside, was told they only had ten minutes, sprinted to the elevator to shoot their way to the top, yelled at her friend, “Hurry up! We only have four minutes and fifty-six seconds left!” Snapped the photo in a “candid” shot, and sprinted back downstairs where they blew kisses at the elderly doorman and went out for a slice of greasy one-dollar pizza for lunch. Plausible.
Social media has given us millennial kids a way to lie to everyone we ever knew. It is both a blessing and a curse. Now that we can pretend to live these elaborate lifestyles, what’s the point in actually trying to live an elaborate lifestyle? I think the $70,000 education has something to do with it.
Let’s make our way back to the British artist. When I read articles like this, I’m convinced this is why we don’t have a woman president yet. From men, we hear the typical, “Oh, they are just going to cry all the time” and “Women can’t handle the pressure” and “Their periods make them too emotional to handle a job like that.” They probably think these things because we are creating bejeweled panties to remind them we get our periods every month. Why must we remind everyone? They already know. I’m not surprised that men feel the way that they do because they half expect us to walk into a corporate office with flowered crowns, tossing tampons in the air like we’re Oprah.
“You get a tampon, and you get a tampon, and you, and you, and you.”
We act like queens simply because we have to deal with bloody fluids flowing out of our bodies and men don’t. This isn’t 1969.
Having your period really does not affect how you live. Perhaps the first year it did. When I got my period at the age of twelve, I didn’t leave my bed for a year. As we grow older, we learn to live with it. We take it with us to yoga, thanks to Tampax. We take it with us to work, to the grocery store, to the bank, and while doing chores. In fact, I think a woman president would kick ass, especially while on her period. When we are on our period, we don’t want to deal with frivolous crap. Like when your boyfriend asks, “Babe, what do you want for dinner?”
“Give me everything, or I’ll kill you.”
And then we cry because we have to make a decision between burgers and spaghetti. And then we have to make it. But throw us in the oval office and the vice president asks, “What do we do about ISIS?”
“I’ll tell you what we can do about fucking ISIS.” We then present America/The World with plans A-Z, pick one out of a hat and save the world. I’m obviously being unreasonably sarcastic with that statement.
The idea that women would not be able to handle politics simply because we cry more, or so they claim, is utterly ridiculous. I guarantee anyone who has seen Marley & Me, bawled his or her eyes out. Owen Wilson ripped out your heart, stomped on it, and pepper-sprayed it until it just shriveled up into nothing. Both men and women cried at the end of that movie, which makes us equals. Also, not backed up by data or anything. Just me trying to make sense of bejeweled panties.