On the same note as before, here was one writing prompt I found interesting. The exercise said to write about what you carry. This is what I came up with. My writer’s group got a laugh out of it so thought I’d share.
Some people collect stamps, but I horde tampons, stashing them in backpacks, cupboards and vehicles. Once, on a day hike with nowhere else available, I tucked one in my bra. My chest became a face with two drooping eyes and a skinny nose.
My husband was pulled over coming home from work at four a.m., and the deputy, hunting drunks, asked for his license and registration. Opening the glove box, tampons fell out. Opening the console, he rooted through them. Two men staring at alien symbols of femininity.
Since menopause began I never know when things will start. Sometimes months go by, and then without warning, and usually in public, I’m reminded that I have yet to move completely into that time when I am no longer fertile. Because there is no regularity, because Nature’s humor leans toward shock value, I fear being caught unprepared. Convinced I have no supply, I buy more. Just in case I’m in the car or out walking, or in the middle of a meeting. Convinced the ones I’ve hidden are gone, I grab more when I leave home. The piles grow.
This time of life, a woman moves from child bearing to becoming a wise woman. Or, as my doctor says, acknowledging my Celtic heritage, an old crone. He tells me this move is natural, like seasons changing from summer to fall. That’s me, moving into autumn, afraid of being caught in the elements unprepared.
I now drink water through hot flashes and eat healthier. I go for walks in the woods with my dogs. I write. I am learning to recognize those emotional moments that never happened in my spring, and to pamper myself in sad times. And I carry tampons, seeking security, trying to convince myself I’m ready.
So, what do you carry?