« Lone gunman | Main | Cycle day 1 »



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.

Control freak.

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.