At long last, I’d finally landed an interview at a fashion magazine! I would be meeting with the fashion director, a notoriously tough, cold broad, so I knew I had to put together an outfit beyond reproach.
It was the height of summer, so I went with a tasteful blue silk Surface 2 Air tunic tucked into mostly white floral Leilani shorts, paired with teetering cobalt suede platform sandals. The shorts were a hair tight, so I was worried about the junk situation, but I figured it would be fine because I’d be seated behind a table, right?
The editor had neglected to book a boardroom for our interview, so she led me to a lounge area, where she settled into an Eames knock-off and I was forced to perch on an egg-shaped red orb in lieu of a normal human chair. I awkwardly pretzelled my long, be-platformed legs into the approximation of an elegant criss-cross to avoid angling my shorts-stuffed vagina up into her face, looming high above me. She was a hard-ass during the interview, as expected, so I called a friend to recap the second I left the office.
As I was wrapping the convo and delicately picking my way down the subway steps, all words died in my throat. Gazing down, I saw that I had started my period. All over the crotch of my white shorts. Which had been directed at the sternest fashion editor in the country for the past 30 minutes. I had to hold my purse in front of me like a junior-high boy with a boner all the way home to make sure nobody spotted the bloody crime scene.
It turned out OK, though. I still work here, don’t I?
On the Rag: 5 Stages of No-Period Panic
On the Rag: Know Your Flow
On the Rag: My First Tampon
On the Rag: The Rise of the Artisanal Period
On the Rag: Death by Tampon
On the Rag: I Tried 3 Pairs of Period Underwear