Mine came the summer after 7th grade on the second morning of sailing lessons at the local country club. (Shut up, I’m a WASP.) One the first day of obnoxiously preppy sailing class, the students had to tread water in the pool for a few minutes to prove that we wouldn’t drown if the boats capsized. But my Blair Waldorf-ian self woke up the morning of the second class with blood in my underwear! Because I’m my mom’s baby, she majorly teared-up over me getting my period—so embarrassing! So I just snatched the pads from her and hissed that I didn’t want to talk about it. Mom had no chance to teach me about tampons and I didn’t ask!
But I spent the next several days of sailing class terrified we’d have to go in the pool again, or my boat would capsize and I’d get wet, and everybody would know I was wearing a big, soggy pad. To this day, that’s pretty much all I remember about sailing lessons! I didn’t use a tampon for the first time until I was 16 (during a performance of “The Vagina Monologues” of all places). Alas, by then, my sailing days were over.
I’m not the only Frisk-ette with a slightly tragic first period story. Our tales of tampons and trauma, after the jump. Keep reading »