today's post is brought to you by my cravings.
lil latrell moved into town quietly in a shiny honda crv in the middle of the night. she unpacked her toothpaste, slept a long sleep, woke and found target. then she completely derailed my menstral cycle, systematically and without remorse.
until i met lil latrell three, four years ago, i surrounded myself with people who did not get periods: men. my own cycle was lazy. a thing of whimsy. its comprehension of a calendar as rudimentary as my own ability to read a map. my period was less like a monthly guest and more like a strange goth roommate who mostly hung out in her boyfriend's basement apartment, eating easy mac with her fingers and circling jobs in the classified section with a purple sharpie. occasionally returning home unannounced for clean socks, her allowance, her copy of atlas shrugged.
lil latrell hadn't been in town long before we started hatching the tell-tale warning chin blemish within 15 minutes of the other. after a round of dueling yawns, i'd look at her through eyes drooling with false, hormonally altered sentiment and see her weeping across the table. lil latrell clutching a bag of m&m's, me face-first in cool ranch doritos.
"oh, yeah," i'd say. "we're getting our period, aren't we?"
this always surprised me. that a woman with a blip of a body -- just over 5-feet tall, 85 pounds if she's holding a 5-pound bag of sugar in arms that i swear are purely decorative and cannot be functional -- could come into town and hijack my hormones.
let's be honest: were lil latrell and i to wrestle, box or play bloody knuckles, i could easily palm her tiny head until she grew tired of swinging her arms in my direction.
but when it comes to forcing her period on me, this woman proved to be a brute. even a year after lil latrell moved away, we remained in synch. her sobbing in kansas; me in duluth.
these days my cycle is dictated by a prescription and everything runs effective and efficiently. until this month. last week i began getting the aches, the saggy bloat, and the cranky days before i expected. i counted through my pills twice, trying to figure out why it sounded like a good idea to lock myself in a dark basement for a few days with just a jar of cheeze whiz and an embroidered journal with a puppy on the cover.
"who is doing this to me?" i wondered, counting the women i spend a lot of time with and coming up with a big fat "none."
then i flashed on jcrew. we spent consecutive days together last week first at pizza luce, then at midi for dinner on sunday. and with these wimpy peon hormones ... i didn't stand a chance.
jcrew and i were hanging out today. smoking a cigarette and talking about what we always talk about: an itemization of our caloric intakes since, oh, birth and people we want to punch in the face.
"i don't even know why i'm wearing this sweater today," she said. "i think i got it in 1999 ..."
the disregard for this century's fashions struck me as a bit out of character for jcrew. something more along the lines of something i'd do. did, actually. a few weeks ago i wore vintage american eagle: a brown oversized sweater i'd paired with leggings in college. the out-dated and obvious decorative V sewn into the collar.
simultaneously, we both leaned forward and jettisoned matching wads of spit. they crossed paths and came dangerously close to colliding. we laughed. oh, how we laughed. two old friends on the same menstral cycle, smoking and spitting.
"oh, gawd," she said. "we're turning into each other."
we brangelina'd our names to form a single identity.
when we looked at each other and realized we were both wearing winter caps pulled down to our eyeballs, we snorted.
"thank god," i said. "you may have hijacked my period, but at least i'm rubbing off on you, too."