It happened in the mid-eighties. I was in a Catholic church, with my first serious boyfriend, Paul, his dad and his two brothers. I was thinking blasphemous thoughts during the first hymn, when the lady behind me tapped me on the shoulder and whispered in my ear, “I think you’ve got your period”.
Oh my God! OH MY GOD! (oops, sorry God). Shit, shit, bloody shit! Why here? Why now? I think my face went redder than the stain on the back of my white A-line skirt! Yes, WHITE!
What do I do? What the bloody hell do I do? I’m in the third row of an unfamiliar church, my boyfriend’s mum at home preparing breakfast, with no female support, surrounded by men, and my backside resembles a Japanese flag! This must be the work of the Catholic Church! They are punishing me for the blasphemous thoughts I had during that first hymn!
I whispered my situation into Paul’s ear and a plan was hatched. We’d tell his dad I wasn’t feeling well, then the next time the congregation stood, we’d make a swift exit, Paul walking very closely behind me.
Everyone stood, and we ran out the door, me in tears, vowing never to return to a Catholic Church again.
The skirt was washed and the stain removed but the embarrassment lived on. On Monday morning at work, my boss asked if I was ok after Sunday. Curious, I asked what she meant. It turns out she was sitting in the back row at the same service and could see the infamous red blotch from her vantage point – I can’t imagine how many others witnessed my period making its grand entrance!
This is an excerpt from my soon-to-be-released book on all things vagina. Coming to an e-Book store likety-split!
