That Time of the Month

A Short Story

A notification popped up on the screen of my phone accompanied by a bright trill. Groaning, I read the calendar reminder before dismissing the message with an irritated swipe of my finger.

It was that time of the month. Again.

Steeling myself, I poked the icon for the tracker app on my phone (oh the wonders of modern technology). A bright pink calendar appeared, and just as I suspected, the next day had a big moon-faced smile sitting squarely in the box.

Just peachy.

How did it always seem to sneak up on me? Every month, I promised myself I’d be more prepared for the next one, and every time I seemed to be caught off guard. Oh, well, it wasn’t like I didn’t have another shot next month. And the month after that. And the month after that.

Though, really, I only had myself to blame. If I looked back over the previous days, all the signs were there. I had been achy and tired, and I had snapped at my boss yesterday over making me rewrite the McMaster Presentation for the fourth time. Normally, I would have just called Keith a prick in my head and complained to my coworker, Dina, behind his back. As it was, I’d had to apologize and told him I was suffering from a headache, which was not untrue.

Turning off the episode of Gilmore Girls I had hoped to watch, I hauled myself off the couch and into the kitchen. Cold air spilled out of the fridge making bare toes with their sparkly purple nail polish curl against the tile. It turned out that cold air and condiments were about the only thing it contained. The medicine cabinet in my bathroom proved equally empty. I was going to need supplies.

Kicking myself for not remembering to restock earlier, I shuffled into a pair of flip-flops, grabbed my purse and keys, and headed to the twenty-four-hour grocery store.

One of the trolley’s wheels squeaked against the black and white tiles as I made my way up and down the aisles. The small eek eek of a frightened mouse. It was annoying, but not enough to go all the back to the front of the store to get a new cart. A muzak version of Dying in your Arms Tonight played over the tinny speakers setting my teeth on edge. I needed to get what I came for and get out.

I grabbed a couple of protein bars from the cereal aisle and tossed them into the bottom of the cart. Two cans of baked beans followed with a rattle as they struck the metal mesh and rolled about. Squeaking to the back of the store, I surveyed the rows of shrink-wrapped cuts of meat. A thick cut New York strip joined the other items in the bottom of the cart. What the hell? I was going to need the protein, and it was on sale.

Resolutely, I passed the candy aisle with its siren song of sugar and brightly wrapped sweets, only to stop ten feet later. With a sigh, I swung my cart around in a prolonged squeal of defeat, or victory. After selecting two bars of Theo’s 70% dark chocolate (I had read anything below 70% and you lose the benefits of the cocoa beans, plus milk chocolate is far too sweet for my tastes), I nestled them next to my purse in the child’s seat of the cart. Nothing worse than broken chocolate bars. All that was left was to swing by the Health and Beauty section.

Juggling the brown paper bag of purchases, I unlocked the front door of my apartment with a jiggle of keys. At some point, I really was going to have to reorganize that thing. I’m pretty sure it still had the key to my first childhood home on it.

After hip checking the door closed, I threw the lock. It was as old as my ancient apartment building and just as sturdy. It engaged with a satisfying clunk. For good measure, I slid the chain lock into its slot as well. A girl couldn’t be too careful.

While the fridge didn’t look exactly happy, it didn’t seem quite so sad with the dark red steak surrounded by half-empty ketchup and bbq sauces. The rest of the items were strewn on my dining room table for easy access, should I need them.

Good enough for tonight, I figured, before hopping in the shower for a quick rinse. Trailing water droplets, I headed over to the dresser. After rummaging around in the top drawer, I pulled out my oldest pair of panties. They used to be pink, but now were more grey than anything. The butt sagged to the point that it barely touched my cheeks, and the band did not snap so much as gently bounce against my hips and stomach like an astronaut walking on the lunar surface. After throwing on a pair of sweats and an old college jersey, Go Gamecocks, I crawled into bed.

The next morning I woke up with a stomach that felt like a ball of angry snakes all knotted together and a spectacular case of bed head. Rolling over, I tucked my knees up to my chest to ease the cramping, as I swatted the bedside table searching for my phone. The bright screen blinded me, and I squinted out of one eye as I hit Keith’s speed dial. Every ring throbbed in my ear. A near physical blow that ricocheted around my skull.

“Yes,” Keith finally answered after the fifth ring.

“It’s Bri. I’m not going to make it into work today,” I mumbled, my tongue dry and thick as an overcooked dinner roll in my mouth.

There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. My eyeballs backflipped in their sockets in response.

“Weren’t you just out last month?”

“Yes, it’s kind of a monthly thing, Keith. As in, it happens every month.”

“I know, I know, but what about the McMaster presentation?” Keith whined, a note of panic creeping into the edge of his useless voice. “There’s still a lot of work to be done, and we are meeting with them on Tuesday.”

“I’ll be back in the office on Monday. It’ll get done, even if I have to stay late.”

“See that you do” was the only reply before the line went dead.

It took every ounce of willpower not to throw the phone across the room.

“Little prick,” I growled, throwing the covers off. “Why don’t you stop by so I can bite that little pea-brain head of yours clean off?”

The mental image of my boss’s headless body running around flailing its arms as great Tarantino fountains of blood gushed from his neck put a smile on my lips. At least it did, till I stood up too quickly and my stomach protested. Bending over, I rubbed one hand in gentle circles over my cramping abdomen. The first day was always the worst.

Padding into the kitchen, I was careful not to move too quickly. Praise all that is good and holy; I had remembered to fill the coffee pot the night before. After punching the start button, I tore into the packaging of the new Advil bottle. Why did they always make getting into these things so difficult? Bits of cardboard and silver foil from the seal littered the countertop, but I was finally successful.

After swallowing three of the round pills and draining the glass of water I used to take them, I stood bracing myself on the counter, nails clicking impatiently on the formica as the coffee machine bubbled away. Soon the aroma of warm coffee wafted around the kitchen, and I could feel the painkillers slowly starting to work. After pouring myself a generous cup and stirring in enough sugar to put a baby elephant into diabetic shock, I grabbed one of the protein bars and shuffled into the living room.

Wrapped in my old flannel blanket, I curled up on my sagging couch. Not bothering with the wrapper (really it’s just fiber, and it’s not like the bar itself tastes any better), I ate the whole thing in three bites washing it down with big slurps of coffee. Picking up the remote, I used one claw to carefully press the power button for the TV, before reaching over the side of the sofa and snagging the heating pad from its permanent home under the end table. Positioning the heating pad against my lower stomach, I turned it up to full power.

Between the Advil, the coffee, and the soothing waves of warmth from the heating pad, my stomach slowly unwound itself. Letting out a sigh, I sank back against the couch cushions, before shooting upright with a yelp of pain. Digging behind me, I pulled my tail out of the blanket so it wouldn’t get pinched and leaned back.

Some girls had it so easy. Every month they’d transform with no problems or issues, just beautiful silky pelts and more than enough energy to take on the world. No, I had to be one of the unlucky ones plagued with headaches, mood swings, and cramps so horrendous, I had to miss work for the first day of the full moon.

Still, it could be worse. I had a beautiful steak to look forward to for dinner, and reruns of the Great British Bakeoff were on the TV. Though, I couldn’t help but think of my boss’s head being baked into one of those flaky, buttery pastries the contestants were making.

“Simply scrummy” as Miss Mary Barry would say.