FORBIDDEN FRUIT: THE ‘MAN PERIOD’ IS REAL

I knew what kind of day it was going to be when I could hear my roommate’s distinctive gravelly voice piercing through the walls of our apartment. I hadn’t slept much that night as it was, and it felt as if my snooze button expired every ten seconds instead of minutes. As I walked to the bathroom, led by my morning wood, I could hear the water I’d chugged right before going to bed sloshing around inside my stomach.

“Ugh,” I groaned, feeling about as shiteous as I knew I looked.

When my tired eyes finally adjusted to the bright vanity lights above my bathroom mirror, I saw that my face looked… weird. I hadn’t developed some overnight deformity or a third eyebrow, but it looked like someone had filled my cheeks with helium and painted them with struggle. My body, already a work in progress with irregular, bi-weekly or so visits to the gym, looked like a deflated casserole and felt just as gross. I’d been here before, but hated that it was happening again.

I was on my man period.

Now, before you jump to politically incorrect assumptions and accusations of marginalization, this is not intended to shade my sisters from other misters. If anything, this is meant to show them that we (or at least I) can at least on a small level identify with what they go through during that time of the month.

The man period is a complex thing to understand, and even more difficult to describe; however, I’ll do my best for the sake of expanding your minds. The easiest way to explain it is “the peak of a man’s insecurity.” It’s knowing you’ve been putting in work in the gym but still feeling fat. It’s being dressed to the nines but fearing Joan Rivers is lurking close behind with a camera crew to expose you to the world for being a fashion miss. It’s finding the one minuscule flaw in what everyone else would consider to be a beautiful day. And what’s more, it’s not exclusive to any subgroup of the male species: straight, gay, black, white, fat, skinny – we all get it.

Later that morning, I found myself standing in front of my open closet wearing nothing but a wife beater and boxer briefs. My clothes are all ugly, I thought, and the ones I do like probably don’t even fit.

“Might as well just go to work in my underwear,” I mumbled to myself as I picked out my go-to man period get-up: white button-up, dark blue jeans and brown loafers. I begrudgingly pressed my shirt and headed on my way to the office, where I knew that I would be tested beyond belief.

“Good morning,” our receptionist seemed to screech as I entered my office building.

Trying not to be a complete asshole (even though I felt she totally asked for it with that loud-ass greeting), I smiled and waved without a word and faced the elevator with my eyes closed. When I heard the ding of its arrival, I opened my eyes to see two of my office mates waiting with me. They were more cheerful than usual with a venti cup of the devil’s crack to boot – which just annoyed the hell out of me.

After what seemed like the longest elevator ride in the history of the contraption’s existence, I loafed over to my sad excuse for a cubicle and began my work day. “One minute down, 479 to go,” I said to myself, daring someone to even look at me the wrong way.

What makes the man period so different is there’s no real explanation for it; with women, it’s a scientifically proven biological process with known “side effects.” For us, it’s just…there. No rhyme, no reason, and most notably no warning. The worst, however, is when it manifests itself physically: bloating, insatiable – or nonexistent – horniness, constant hunger, and an overall feeling of whatthefuckinsons.

After what ended up being an uneventful day at the office (thank God, because…I just couldn’t), I hopped on the first train I could to just get back to my shack in the woods and sleep the rest of this man period off. But, considering the ease of the day, I figured the worst part was over and maybe it was salvageable after all. As the train approached and emptied, I saw a sight comparable to a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow: an empty seat! As I made my way toward this ray of light, the unthinkable happened: an old ass woman sat down in my seat!

“Ain’t this about a…” I said (again, to myself) as I stood the whole 30-minute ride home – bloated and ugly.

SOURCE: MUSED MAG