That Time of the Month

“Don’t put all your muse in one basket”, a dear friend told me when I presented him with an excuse for not having written something since eternity.
This post has been long due. It may come across as what the cool ones these days are referring to as TMI (Too Much Information).
I am going to write it anyway.
So, the husband’s been flung farther into the mountains; I have been catapulted back to civilization and internet/mobile connectivity hasn’t been our best friend since.
It sucks. It sucks to hear the fancy lady say, “The number you’ve called does not exist”. IT DOES! What would you know, you robot-machine-lady!?
For most times, when the husband’s screaming “hello”, I hear “hell” and feel worse.
And the worst? The worst is hearing a third gentleman bombarding our “hell” conversation with “Hanji! Hanji!”
Anyway, this post isn’t about the missing vowels and words; it’s about a simpler time. A time when I could summon the husband for a broken light bulb, a broken fan, or a broken heart.
On one such evening, Miss Fancy Pants, which I am, got her periods. Yes, “that time of the month”, yes, “difficult days”; call it what you will.
I have had all kinds of friends, those who’ve been super bouncy “during those day” and those who’ve made the hot-bag their BFFs and the couch, their BAE. None of them, have however, bounced around in white pants like they show on TV. Not that they can’t, just that I haven’t seen them.
Women used to have a secret code when referring to their periods. They are more liberal with their words now. But some men are still scared of it; no they don’t shy away, they’re just scared that it it’s going to be misconstrued.
I didn’t know I was living with one such gentleman till very recently. On that fortunate evening, I called the husband and asked him to get me a pack of sanitary napkins on his way home.
“What!? Why!? Yaha Spencers jaisa kuch bhi nahi hai!”
For some reason, I started enjoying this and let out a quick giggle.
“Kal hi gayi thi na mall! Leke aana tha na!”
After realizing he had no way out of it and after being threatened, he agreed.
“Details WhatsApp kar do, please!”
A good one hour later, I received a call, “Yeh banda zabardasti Huggies kyu bech raha hai mujhe!? Main kabse stayfree bol raha hu”, he was genuinely shocked as was I.
And after what seemed like a decade, the husband arrived with a package in a black polybag. The contents of the bag had been neatly packed in layers of newspaper; sneaky, I must say.
“This is not what I wanted. This is not what I use!” I was getting teary and irritable, like the world was coming to an end. I wanted to go shoot the shopkeeper in the head.
The husband sat there, stunned at this outburst and mumbling under his breath.
He asked me how else he could help. I cried some more, and then he started reading, “Fragrant and soft, based on consumer data…yeh acha hai, you should use it!”
One part of me wanted him to leave and the other part, the human part, wanted to go pad-hunting.
While I called JoJo to tell her that my life was over, that she’ll never see me again and that I was going to rot in hell, I saw the dear husband trying to express-Flipkart the one thing that would make me less miserable.
P.S: The intent of this post, along with humor, is to normalise it for our men to talk about things that they’ve grown up to be uncomfortable with.
P.P.S: My husband’s a doll.


Picture courtesy : Google Images


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