I get a Depo-Provera injection every three months that dries up my uterus like a raisin in the sun.
I never menstruate anymore, and that’s a great thing, but I got to thinking the other day that Depo doesn’t really solve anything. It helps with the symptoms, but it’s a long way from a cure. What we really need is an injection that would prevent the onset of the most horrifying disease known to man–womanhood!!!
I myself was stricken with womanhood at the tender age of twelve. Up until that fateful year I led a blissful existence–I was a lithe, hairless, odorless young nymph, scampering about in a rose-scented forest of crayons and Barbie dolls. Until one day, when the cute, pink little rosebuds dotting my chest suddenly began to swell into horrible pustules! The skin around them bubbled and boiled, not unlike the effects of leprosy, and flared into grotesquely distended tumors that joggled painfully when I ran—unless I wore a chest harness, which I now have to do every day for the rest of my life.
Then came the unsightly appearance of hair on various parts of my heretofore doll-like anatomy! And not nice hair, either. Evil, wiry black vines sprouted from the delicate petals of my baby box and elsewhere. It was about then that I began to feel I was doomed. For the rest of my life I would try desperately to hack those vines away with razor blades, to uproot them with boiling wax and poisonous chemicals. But like any kind of weed, they just keep growing back–each time blacker and uglier than the last.
As if that wasn’t enough, I soon entered the third stage of the disease–seepage. The foul, rotting flesh of my uterine lining began to slough off every month, and that was the worst symptom of all. But even when I wasn’t menstruating, my body was secreting nasty fluids and odors. A mysterious paste seemed to ooze continually from my newly afflicted nether region and crusted up my pretty pink panties. And then an acrid poison began seeping from the tangle of hairs in my underarms, staining my frilly little dresses and making me sick.
The party was definitely over. At this point my mother recognized the symptoms and took me aside, explaining to me the various methods of damage control. There were cotton diapers I could strap into my panties to collect the discharged flesh and blood. Sharp blades designed to scrape away the unwanted hairs. Sprays, powders, gels, and perfumes to stop perspiration in its ugly tracks. There were even little baggies full of vinegar, to be squirted up one’s vagina when one had that “not so fresh” feeling.
At the time I was grateful to my mother for showing me these tricks. But now that I think about it, she wasn’t really helping me! She was only helping me cope with womanhood, when what I really needed was to be cured of it. Instead of giving me a stupid little book called So You’re a Woman Now, I wish my mom had taken me to a freaky backwoods misogynist doctor who could have somehow stopped the advance of womanhood dead in its tracks. He could have lanced the boils on my chest to make the swelling go down! Scooped out my uterus! Prescribed some sort of weed-killer to stop my pubic hairs at the root, and keep them from ever growing back!
But this is the third millennium. We know enough about hormones that we should be able to invent some kind of injection that puts a halt to puberty. A simple injection that will save ten-year-old girls from ever having to suffer the fate of all the rest of us hairy, stinky, sweating, jiggling, bleeding women. In the meantime, I’ll keep shaving my bush and getting Depo shots. It’s the best I can do!