Wednesday, October 28, 2009

My poor father

Today I went to Calloway Gardens in Pine Mountain, Georgia. I haven't been there since I went with my dad in April of 1991, which I remember because it was there that I got my first period. Sorry to any dudes who are reading this, but them's the facts. You can't be any more mortified reading this than my dad was trying to help me figure out what sort of provisions I was going to need for my long journey into womanhood. At first he enlisted the help of a woman he knew who was selling cornhusk dolls at the festival we were attending (because that's normally the reason you go to Calloway Gardens--that place is Festival Central), but right before she was about to take me to the pharmacy, her son got a concussion because he jumped off his bicycle as he was riding down a hill or some crap that only a boy would do. So she took him to the hospital and my dad took me to the Big Star, where he bought me one of every single feminine product they had, including a tiny bottle of KY Jelly. I remember this because, back in the hotel room, after carefully reading all the instructions in the packages of assorted tampons, sanitary napkins, liners and incontinence diapers for the aged and infirm, I sat there for a long time looking at the little bottle of lubricant like it was the left over piece in the Ikea cabinet I had just assembled.

The poor man also took me to JC Penny's to buy my first miniscule little bra after the first day of 6th grade, but I'll spare you that harrowing tale. I think I've blocked most of it out anyway.

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