Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon Whether You Tape Over That Thing or Not

I was over at Barefoot Foodie's place reading "Heaven Hates Teabaggers" yesterday, and I was laughing along — oh ha ha how very funny my god I'm glad I don't have little boys right now — and it was all so very gut-busting until I hit this sentence:
I remember when my mom gave me the private part talk, and it freaked me out so much, I literally put a piece of scotch tape across my vagina, so that nothing could get in there, and I wouldn’t go to hell.
I thought Huh? What? Is that a memory crawling around back there in my brain?, and, OH MY GOD, it was.

I think I was about ten years old when I found out that one of the other girls in my class had gotten her period. This threw my whole understanding of the world and my place in it into a tailspin.

Ever since I was about five years old, when I realized that I was probably going to turn into a woman when I grew up, I had been none too thrilled about the prospect. I kept trying to bargain with God about the fate of my little girl body, but as more and more of the girls I knew succumbed to budding breasts and complaints of stomach cramps, I was losing more and more hope.

I grabbed a tampon from underneath my mother's bathroom sink and scurried into the family bathroom in the hallway with it. I unwrapped what looked like a brutal monstrosity. I was tiny for a ten-year-old, and that tampon was a massive bugger meant for the heavy flow of women who had borne multiple children.

My heart sank. I would end up becoming a woman, and the me I knew would die by the hand of this cotton monster if I didn't thwart my body's evil designs for my future. I concocted a plan. It was desperate little plan, but it was a simple one that even a ten-year-old could undertake. I grabbed a roll of scotch tape from the kitchen cupboard and ran back to the bathroom. If my body had a plan I didn't like, I had a plan for my body.

I proceeded to tape my vagina shut.

Corks stopped up wine bottles, rubber seals sealed Mason jars, and plugs kept water in the bathtub, so I figured that scotch tape might keep the onset of my womanhood, that dearly unwanted period, at bay. All I wanted to do was buy myself some time.

My desperate little plan lasted for approximately four whole hours, though, because guess who was allergic to the adhesive on the scotch tape? ME. Crap, did it itch, too, so I started to peel the tape back, but guess what else? That tape was really sticky. So, guess who gave herself her first and only bikini wax? ME. The hairs may have been blonde and baby fine back then, but the pain, I can assure you was no less.

By the time I had all the tape removed, I had a red rash swelling everywhere the tape had been, so I broke out the foul-smelling Ozonol ointment that my mother always packed when we went to the lake. I doctored myself up with the help of a small handheld mirror, because there was no way I was going to tell my mother what I had been up to.

Even I could see how ridiculous my situation was, and I was in no mood to explain how the girl in my class plus the sight of a gigantic tampon plus my personal gender war plus half a roll of scotch tape equaled a nasty rash plus a now missing half-tube of Ozonol.

And it only took 27 years for the truth to come out thanks to the internet and little boys teabagging the furniture.