My friend sent me this link today and it inspired me to share my own embarrassing period story. You’re welcome.
I’d also like to preface this story by saying that I grew up in the greater Los Angeles area.
It was freshman year… (ish?). One of my best friend’s dads was a composer for movie soundtracks…and so was invited to the Writer’s Guild Awards. He decided to take his daughter (and my best friend) Tatiana as his date who asked me and my other bestie Britt to go as her dates… (eeeee!) We would get to stay at the Beverly Hilton, attend a black-tie event, and spend the day “getting ready” which means, tanning by the pool, getting our hair done and over-doing each other’s make-up to look like Slovenian street hookers. Basically every 13-year-old girl’s dream date. And we go to stay in our own hotel room! Everyone jump up and down and squeal!!!!!!!!
(Aside: “getting ready” is a strange and luxurious custom of young girls… a sacred right. Now when I ‘get ready’ for a night out or even a walk to the grocery store it’s 5 minutes of hiding from our puppy and toddler, frantically look for a clean shirt, while abrasively applying mascara. B.C. (before child) it was going over to some other girls house at like 5pm and hanging out in her room drinking stolen vodka and trying on 80 different outfits while we text all the different dudes we met last week so we can ‘figure out what we are doing tonight’ . Each of us would try to be the drunkest one so we wouldn’t have to drive… Frightened? Amazed I’m still alive? Me too.)
So after 3 weeks of shopping at Charlotte Russe and Claire’s with our babysitting money… we arrive at the Beverly Hilton, check-in and proceed to do what every girl does in a hotel room: order grilled cheese sandwiches and paint our nails. After getting in a fight as to who gets to sleep alone (two beds and 3 girls) We got ready and went down to the pool in complementary white robes. We go for a swim and are laying out on the lounge chairs drinking virgin daiquiris… thumbing through magazines trying to find “our hairstyle” for the night. I think I settled on a picture of Kate Winslet…
We are walking back to the room to “start getting ready” and my two friends walking behind me start laughing hysterically and saying “oh my god, oh my god” in the way only 13-year-olds can. I had a huge pinkish-red stain blooming on the back of my nice white pool-robe. I panicked and dived into the elevator. The rest of the night is foggy. I remember calling my mom who told me to buy a tampon at the hotel lobby store – which was mortifying – I think I made my friends go buy some while I sobbed in the bathroom wondering who saw my period stain and what they would possibly think….!!!!!
( Dear 13-year-old Molly,
They probably just thought you got your first period and felt really bad for you.
Love, 30-year-old Molly
P.S. it gets better honey.)
The hairstylist ended up over-curling my hair that night so I looked like Shirley Temple or that really annoying one from the Dixie Chics. All I remember about the actual event was eating like 6 buttered rolls before the salad got there. But I did get to sleep alone because my friends were afraid of getting bled on…a plus.
It was this event and few others around this time that I started to realize that I wasn’t like other girls, I didn’t quite fit the mold.. I mean who WANTS their hair to look like Kate Winslets?
I’d like to invite everyone who reads this to share their own “embarrassing period story”. It feels really great to say f-it, I’ve bled on things, and I live to tell the tail.