On the subject of tampons

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There’s a lot of talk about tampons these days, politically speaking, related to our very own Gov. Tim Walz. Like the vice presidential candidate, I’m also not the kind of person who thinks that tampons should be hidden away, at least anymore. Because of periods, in part, humans can create actual other humans. How is this incredible fact not celebrated more? For that reason and many others, we are absolute queens of the universe.

I’m also not the first person to identify the reason that periods have been a source of shame and labeled as gross. If women (and feminine-presenting people) are made to feel as if our bodies and bodily functions are something to hide, then we can’t own our power. This keeps us quieter, more submissive and more willing to accept whatever conditions are handed to us in daily life.

And even though I know, I know, I know all of this, still sometimes, tampons become embarrassing. Or maybe it’s just my own efforts at casual conversations gone awry.

One early evening, back when I was in my 20s — young and free and full of spare time in the way single people with no dependents can be, I stood at the checkout counter at the Wedge, a food co-op in the heart of Minneapolis’ Uptown neighborhood. I lived nearby and visited the store often. I liked the well-sourced produce and the friendly, quirky employees. I even like-liked one of them for a season, until I asked him out, and he said he had a girlfriend, but we could meet up as friends. Thank you, next.

On this visit, my basket was full of the following items: two boxes of tampons, both super (Who named it super, anyway? Are they really?) and regular, and likely a bar of chocolate and a deli salad. As he scanned my items, the kind-hearted checkout attendant said, “How are you doing today?” And I looked at him, shrugged my shoulders, and said, “Well, you know. Tampon city.”

My friends and I used this “city” bit with anything, like, if someone was stuck on Lake Street behind a backup of cars, they might say, “Wow, traffic city.” Or if one of us had an unbearable headache, we might label it as “migraine city.” Because we said this a lot, it struck me, initially, as a totally normal thing to say to a stranger about menstrual supplies in a checkout line.

“Tampon city? I do not understand,” the man said. English was not his first language, although to be clear, the reason he didn’t understand was more because what even is tampon city? Obviously, it’s not a place. Look on a map, you won’t find it anywhere. It is a nowhere, nothing locale, with no history, geography, visitors or residents.

What I’m saying is that if it did exist, you probably wouldn’t want to move there.

When I first got my period, I was in sixth grade. I felt a gush right before my mother drove me to school, went to the bathroom, and there was blood. A lot of it. I wore my favorite multicolored paisley jeans from The Limited and I remember thinking, “Well, at least this kind of blends in.” What was I doing wearing pants that were reminiscent of “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat,” I truly do not know.

A wave of shame came over me when I told my mom what was going on. How was this out-of-control and seemingly disgusting thing suddenly happening? I felt like a stranger in my own body. This feeling lasted for years, which was mostly just me absorbing misogyny and internally struggling with self-hate (you know, the usual). I would try to use as few tampons and pads as possible so that I wouldn’t have to go out in public to buy them. I also felt too scared to ask my mother to do it for me.

Other than that, it was healthy.

These days, I have no issue purchasing any menstrual supplies. I take my child with me to Target as if it is a field trip, and not one part of me feels embarrassed. What I really want to pass down to my children is pride about what our bodies can do.

How did I get from there to here? How do any of us go from a shame spiral to acceptance and maybe even self-respect? I don’t exactly know. It generally happens over time. Truthfully, it was a collection of events that happened by chance. I stopped feeling so embarrassed, in part, because my friends from summer camp talked matter-of-factly about everything, including periods, which just made sense. If you can be matter-of-fact, why wouldn’t you be?

But time is not the only factor in personal change — it takes more than that. There was not one singular moment, although I did spend nearly four days of my life splayed out on a hospital bed in labor and after that it’s like, who cares. Any kind of self-consciousness related to your body becomes irrelevant.

A few years after that, I became a caregiver to my now 9-year-old daughter who is on a feeding tube and has multiple disabilities. I live with bodily fluids all around me. And, often, on top of me. This, of course, has changed everything — the intensity of caregiving makes embarrassment seem like a luxury. Now, instead of mortification, I have duty and responsibility and piles of syringes to wash. And most of all, I have love.

But back when I could not have known the trajectory of my life, as the patient man working the Wedge checkout line waited for my answer, I said, “Oh, yeah, never mind.” Then I waved my hands in the air, signaling the universal forgetaboutit gesture. I looked at him and gave a small, not unbridled, smile, trying to subtly cue that if we could end this conversation soon, that would be great. This is Minnesotan for “Can we please wrap this up already?” It also means any number of things including, “This moment should be over,” “I hope we can be friends someday” and “There might be a bee on my face.”

“Will you explain it to me? I just moved here, and I am trying to understand some of the phrases,” he continued earnestly. This guy was so sweet, and I was so weird.

Sweat pooled in my armpits. I’m not sure this man needed this particular phrase, “tampon city,” especially right then and there, since it meant almost nothing. How could I explain it, ideally in 20 seconds or less? I glanced behind me; the checkout line was multiplying.

Heat flushed into my cheeks as I stumbled through a disjointed explanation. It was then I realized: I should stop talking with strangers. At least about such personal things. At minimum, when in a line that is supposed to be moving.

Eventually, the interminable conversation ended. As I strolled towards the automatic exit, I vowed to myself I would not crack a joke publicly about bodily functions again — for a minimum of six months.

Later that weekend, I told my friend (who also used to work at the Wedge) about the exchange in excruciating detail. Following the incident, when either of us referenced the co-op, anything related to periods or even embarrassing conversations, we had to announce, ideally in unison, “Tampon city!”

You may not want to live there, but sometimes it’s worth a visit. But preferably not between 4 and 6 p.m., the busiest time in the store. And sometimes, even though life is indelibly awkward, you can get a good story — and a great laugh — out of an uncomfortable exchange.

I’m still a big fan of having conversations with strangers, and I’ve found that during the most difficult, grief-filled days it can provide a new perspective, a jolt of energy and a feeling of connection. It is also a reminder that we all have somewhat strange and unexpected lives. We are just people, making it up as we go along. And by it, I mean everything.

So, the next time I strolled through the Wedge, I held my head up high like a queen of the universe. Although I decided against starting any in-depth dialogues in the checkout line; I had made a vow to myself, and besides, it wasn’t that time of the month.

Emma Nadler, a psychotherapist and the author of “The Unlikely Village of Eden: A Memoir,” lives in the Twin Cities area and is currently working on a book of essays. On social media: @emmanadlerwrites.