My dad cried and said “I’m so happy for you” as if I had actually accomplished something.
My mom was also so happy for me for thirty seconds, before panicking that my period might disappear again.
I texted my ex-boyfriend who lives in a different city and he responded with three popping champagne bottles, which to my knowledge is the first time he’s ever used an emoji.
My 77-year-old boss clutched his chest with joy, and, eager to convey how deeply comfortable the conversation was for him, added some thoughtful follow-up questions about cramps.
The stranger my friend tried to set me up with at his birthday bought me a celebratory drink and insisted: “It’s 2019, only lame men are grossed out by periods.” (I experienced newfound hope in woke masculinity.)
Another guy I went on a blind date with that week listened to the whole triumphant story compassionately, even offering some related experience of a health mystery solved through diet. We’re all just souls trapped in these weird malfunctioning vessels, I thought.
A third date got squirmy and asked if I was telling everyone about this. I decided to take a break from dating but that was okay because my social calendar was already full: I was planning a blood party.
A blood party is the party you have to celebrate getting your period for the first time in seven years. At least, it’s the party I throw to celebrate getting my period for the first time in seven years. I had been fantasizing about this day for a long time, so I already knew the essential elements: Bloody Mary’s, blood orange bellinis, some sort of fertility ritual. I also wanted it to involve dancing naked around a campfire deep in the wilderness under the aurora borealis, but I live in Los Angeles and don’t own a car so I settled for Elysian Park at dusk with some streamers.
I invited many people, all of whom had experience with menstruation. I encouraged friends to fly in from distant cities, threatening that I may never get married or have a child and so this may be their only chance to prove their love by celebrating a significant life milestone with me.
The response was overwhelming. Everyone wanted to toast to my bleeding. They had lots to say about periods in general and their place in society. They were eager to inaugurate a ceremony that honored womanhood. Someone asked my underwear size. Someone offered to bake me a red velvet cake. Some people actually did travel from distant cities to come to my blood party.
The ceremony was beautiful. Partially inspired by a friend’s transcendent Passover Seder, we blessed objects from a centerpiece representing each of the organs in the reproductive system: a pea for the pituitary gland, a candle for the hypothalamus, two Twizzlers for the fallopian tubes, frozen perogies for ovaries, an egg for eggs, a cozy sweat sock for the uterus, and of course, beet juice for blood.
Then we said some affirmations:
“As the hair follicles rise on the surface of the ovary, so I rise to meet the challenges and joys of the days ahead.”
“As the uterine lining thickens and builds, so I thicken and build in experience and understanding.”
“As the egg enters the fallopian tubes, so I willingly enter the dark tunnel of the unknown where I can’t see anything and fear is my only companion, because I know this tunnel is the only path to a new freedom.”
My beet juice altar.
Courtesy of author
