My Little Red First Period

There’s a new book out that I think you’ll want to check out right away. I just read this review at the New York Times: Review of My Little Red Book – In the Open at Last, a Secret All Women Share

As soon as I finish this post, I’m gonna run right over to Barnes & Noble, because I can’t think of a better way to spend a wintry Wednesday morning than reading really great writers’ first period stories. Here’s a description from Twelve, the publisher:

“MY LITTLE RED BOOK by Rachel Kauder-Nalebuff is an anthology of stories about first periods, collected from women of all ages from around the world. The accounts range from light-hearted (the editor got hers while water skiing in a yellow bathing suit) to heart-stopping (a first period discovered just as one girl was about to be strip-searched by the Nazis). The contributors include well-known women writers (Meg Cabot, Erica Jong, Gloria Steinem, Cecily von Ziegesar), alongside today’s teens. Every woman remembers her first period-where and when it happened, who, if anyone, she told, and even what she was wearing. And yet, despite our vivid memories of this momentous occasion, almost no one talks about it. Even fewer people write about it.”

The author is an 18 year-old, so props to her! Here’s what she has to say about writing the book:

“Why? Because first periods are an awkward subject. My Little Red Book is here to change that. This book is an effort to help us embrace and therefore end the awkwardness. Think about it this way, if Napoleon Dynamite can be cool, so can periods.”

Wait, you didn’t think I’d let you go without telling you my own incredibly awkward first period story, did you?

I was in seventh grade when my family moved in the middle of the school year from New York to LA. We settled into an apartment in Westwood, a wealthy area populated largely by Hollywood types. We weren’t wealthy, we were just transients in the neighborhood while my parents searched for a house in the outlying suburbs. Entering an affluent junior high (think Clueless) mid-year was pure agony, but a couple of girls were sweet enough to take me in. We hung out and went to the Century City mall, where they bought lots of stuff and I was just happy to be included.

My favorite of these girls was Christina. She announced that she was having a slumber party for her birthday. She promised that we would all see a preview of a movie her dad was producing. When she invited me she said, “I don’t know why, but my mom doesn’t really like you. I think it would help if you didn’t wear that same outfit you wear all the time when you come over.” Ouch. That would be the maroon bell-bottoms with the striped shirt. Got it. 

I arrived at Christina’s in my new white shorts, white top combo. Very LA. Cute sandals, funky earrings. (I bet you know where this is going.) Christina’s mom was unfriendly, gave me the raised eyebrow, but I had expected that. Everything was going great, my gift was modest but acceptable compared to the other girls’.

Uh oh. Warm sticky feeling down there. I know immediately. Race to the bathroom, tear the shorts off as fast as possible. What a mess! Look under the sink, arrgggghhh nothing but paper towels. I could use toilet paper, but that would use up the roll pretty fast. No way I can tell Christina’s mom. Will have to crumple up a wad of paper towels and insert into panties.

Over the next several hours, all through the night in fact, I visit the john frequently to make a new paper towel crumple. The paper is rough and is starting to chafe. The wastebasket is getting rather full of very unappealing refuse. My white shorts now sport a variety of blood dribbles and I am mortified of being found out.

By 6 a.m. the wastebasket is overflowing. Where can I hide all these bloody paper towels? Most of the girls have fallen asleep. I gather the period trash into my arms and crumple it into one big mass as best I can. I tiptoe through the house to the garage, where I find the trash cans. I open one gently and silently hurl the whole mess inside. I make my way back through the house as surreptitiously as I can. As I pass the kitchen, I see her. Christina’s mom is waiting just inside the door, arms crossed, eyebrow still raised. She doesn’t say a word.

Note: The photo above is an accurate representation of what we wore. There were no tampons, and no adhesive strips on napkins. The worst thing about that belt arrangement was that the napkin tended to slide back and forth, sometimes working it’s way all the way up your spine, sometimes covering your abdomen. This left you free to bleed all over your clothes and provided many hooting and hollering opportunities for the boys.

Tags: awkward, boys, emo, ex, first period, friend, girl, girls, heart, hot, media, parents, stuff