The other day I got what my grandmother calls “my monthly.” My period came unexpected as always. Sometimes every four weeks; sometimes eight. My period is a scarlet witch who flies into town any damn time she pleases. I don’t always mind since she’s ultimately there to reassure me no embryos have begun squatting in my body. For that, I am thankful.
An unfortunate side effect of mystery menstruation is occasional blood soaked panties. The value of the panties determines whether or not I toss them into the trash or try my best to cleanse them of their deplorable state. After all, my panties were an innocent bystander. I don’t feel right sending them to their grave seeing that they were a faultless victim of my uterine war.
The panties in question this particular time were a favorite teal pair trimmed with lace. I made the disastrous discovery in the morning before work and didn’t have time to wash them. I set them on top of my hamper as a reminder to take care of the gruesome task later when I arrived home.
My work day was an epic battle between cramps and aspirin. I contemplated medicating even more but instead consumed 300 pounds of chocolate to numb the pain. It worked. 5pm came and I drove home elated that I made it through the day without screaming at a wall or a tampon going rogue.
Upon arriving home I walked upstairs to take care of my bloody bloomers only to discover they were no longer where I had left them. My husband had taken the day off from work so I promptly headed downstairs to imply where my incriminating undergarments might be.
“Have you seen the underwear that was on top of my hamper?”
“Yeah, I washed them for you,” he replied.
I walked around the corner to the laundry room. Hanging on the drying rack were my panties, almost sparkling and with no trace of Aunt Flow’s revenge. Usually when I washed them there was a discolored patch of evidence. MY HUSBAND HAD DONE A BETTER JOB AT WASHING MY PERIOD PANTIES THAN I EVER HAD. If there were a class entitled Sullied Skivvies Sanitization 101, he would pass with flying colors.
I couldn’t let him know he had beat me at the laundering of dirty delicates, but I had to know his secret.
“My undies look pretty good. How did you wash them?” I asked.
“Well, first I scrubbed them with the advanced stain gel. I scrubbed and scrubbed while also running them under water. The sponge was kind of big so I ended up getting the corner parts by rubbing it with my fingers. Then I threw them in the washer.”
My husband’s response was the sexiest thing I had ever heard. I’ve read copious amounts of love stories and watch the occasional rom com. Not even a Nicholas Sparks character could compete with my husband, who not only washed my soiled dainties without me asking, but also used his fingers to do so without flinching. Happy tears formed in the corners of my eyes and my lips attacked his face, nearly ripping off his flesh, lovingly, of course.
Everyone sees romance differently. To some, it’s grand gestures. Other couples surprise each other with flowers and gluttonous amounts of sweets. After a while though, it’s the little things. Nine years ago I would have never thought that the guy I assumed was a fling, would end up being comfortable enough with me to manually scour my cherry tainted drawers.
Sure, it’s gross, but that’s the meaning of marriage. For better or worse, bloody or jiggly, til death do us part. I am convinced there is no one better to take care of me in sickness and in health than the man who tediously washed my period panties just because he cares. I am also cocksure his body fluid clean-up skills will come in handy the day after we retire and decide to become silver-haired outlaws.
*all gifs found at giphy.com