It is cycle day 32 and my period has gone missing.
Normally I can depend on my period to ruin my day punctually, exactly 28 days after the last. It announces its advent with a sonic boom originating somewhere near my duodenum, after which all digestive hell breaks loose a courteous warning to batten down my underpants for the bloody onslaught soon to come.
Last month it came a record six days early. Perhaps my body is stubbornly trying to reclaim those lost days, struggling to reclaim its lifelong habit of regularity, attempting to revalidate the Gantt chart I so carefully constructed months ago.
I have come up with a list of activities that should bring on the bloodbath. I have already:
- used up an HPT (negative)
- worn white silk pajamas to bed
- deliberately not restocked my apocalypse-appropriate stash of tampons
- used up another HPT (negative)
- fantasized about what my due date would be if I were pregnant at the moment
- used up still another HPT (negative), exhausting my ready supply
Alas, no blood. Now it's time to get out the big guns:
- schedule a Brazilian wax
- get married in a fluffy white dress
- frolic on a tropical beach wearing a teeny white thong bikini, surrounded by fifty people I desperately want to impress
- go on a third date
- make my Olympic figure skating debut
- be magically transported back to eighth grade, wearing the canonical white skirt, caught padless and humiliated
- buy another HPT
I suspect I'll be very busy today.