Have you ever asked a good friend if they would take a bullet for you? It's a relatively common question we ask each other in order to find out how loved we actually are. Taking a bullet is the most intense hypothetical act of love we, as humans, can imagine. I’m here today to challenge this assumption.
Twelve years ago I found myself in a situation that all adolescent females fear. Still, when I think about it, it gives me shivers of fright. I was on a class field trip with all my closest friends, staying in a hotel with a pool. I was also on my period. I know, I know, it’s painful to recall.
Now, most ladies would say, aside from feeling like a bloated, crampy cow, this should be no problem as tampons would be the easy solution. Well, I refused—and still refuse—to wear them. I’m sorry, but my axe wound (Thanks, John) is not a storage unit. I don’t feel comfortable leaving items unattended for long periods of time in there, if you catch my drift.
My friend, however, really wanted me to swim with her. Teenage girls can be quite cohesive, as we all know. So, with the strength of Candy, as we’ll call her, I decided to make my debut in the world of Tampons. What happened next taught me the phrase, “Listen to your instincts.”
As I entered the bathroom and began unwrapping and preparing, I started to sweat. I looked into the mirror and thought to myself, you can do this, Melanie. I was pale and frightened looking. Candy was waiting outside the door, using her most soothing voice to tell me about the benefits and comforts of such a product. My heart began to pound. I can’t be sure, but I think I held my breath for seven straight minutes until, finally, I worked up the courage to get it done.
In the exact instant that it entered, I said to myself, “I shouldn’t have done this!” Then, I promptly began to lose my mind. I felt sick and began telling Candy that I was going to puke. I was pouring sweat, and then I started to cry. Not a relaxed, ashamed cry, but a panic, wild, screaming cry. All the wile I kept saying, “Get it out. Get it out!” I wanted it out so bad but I couldn’t do it for some reason. I couldn't move or think. It still remains as the first and last panic attack I’ve ever had.
Poor Candy. She wasn’t sure what to do. There was no amount of logic that could have abated my misery. As I sat under the florescent light of a foreign room, feeling irrationally violated by a completely common and safe household product, Candy made a decision.
Because she loved me and knew I had gone bat-shit crazy, she decided that she would pull it out for me. My best friend, who at one point wanted nothing more than to swim with me, was now going to pull my tampon out so I could feel safe again. I heard her nervous, desperate voice say to me, “Mel, let me in. I’ll do it for you. Calm down, it’ll be ok.”
At that moment I realized that I had to pull it out, not for me but for her. I couldn’t let my poor friend do this atrocious task. Yuck. Knowing that I had a friend who cared so much about me that she'd pull out my used tampon, made me feel strong again. I wiped the sweat from my brow, as the saying goes, and pulled that sucker out.
That was twelve years ago and I still refuse to wear them. They’re creepy and gross and I hate them. Aside from learning that I’m kind of a wimp, I learned that “taking a bullet” is proverbial child’s play. If you want to know what a real friend is, ask if they’ll pull out a tampon for you. That’s the true test.
Thank again, Candy. You know who you are.
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