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A few months ago, i thought I'd dreamt it.
In the dream, I was watching a commercial for a new, improved
O.B. tampon. Two alluring young ladies, looking as if they
were fairly new to the world of the cramps, giggled and poured
over schematic drawings of this new super-tampon pulled straight
from the vellum sketchbooks of Leonardo da Vinci. I was instantly
beguiled by my O.B. girls.
But watching TV the other night, I found out this wasn't a
dream.
The O.B. girls are back. And I'm enchanted all over again.
When they're little, boys are taught to fear the intricate,
mysterious workings of the female reproductive system (the
mammary parts notwithstanding). Whereas once I would be afraid
of a commercial explaining the improvements of recent tampon
technology, now I'm fascinated. And all that it took to overcome
this ingrained trepidation was a pair of college-freshman-looking
lovelies with immaculate smiles and an impulse to give us
the latest in tampon tech.
I want to put on a lab coat and take those two enchanting
TV pitchwomen and hang out in the feminine hygiene section
in the local drugstore. We would peruse the aisle and they
could enlighten me on the relative merits and deficiencies
of the various products. I'd set up a small card table, place
a few beakers with colored water on it, snap on a pair of
latex gloves, and dunk competing womanly apparati (nearly
all of which come in boxes with baby-blue and pink scenes
of flowers, gardens, or introspective strolls along a twilight
beach) into the beakers with a sterling silver forceps. Of
course O.B'.s offerings would triumph in a head-to-head absorb-off.
We'd buy napkins, tampons, maxi's,mini's by the armload and
then go find a beach of our own.
I'd spread down my labcoat gallantly so that the ladies had
a place to sit without winding up crusted with the cool, white
sand. We'd open all the boxes as eagerly as street urchins
when the Christmastime Toys for Tots van pulls up to the shelter.
They'd tell me about the bumps in the road on their journeys
into womanhood, with each O.B. product providing a jumping-off
point for each red-faced episode. We'd laugh and sip some
wine. I'd have nothing to offer myself, considering I've never
used any of the products in question in the correct health
context and due to the fact that I was fully-formed as a slayer
of the fairer sex by the age of eleven.
I'd light some candles, out would come the acoustic guitar,
and they'd sing songs of burgeoning womanhood.
I wouldn't know where the goose-down instruments of battle
came from, but I'd take part in the most tender pillow fight
possible.
We'd fall asleep on our makeshift blanket, hands clasped,
limbs intertwined, open boxes of delicate, feminine mystery
all around us.
It wouldn't go any further than that because, you know, it
would be that time of the month, and my companions are in
sync with the power of the moon above us.
I'd finally understand sisterhood.
The sun would come up and we'd be covered in sand and we wouldn't
care.
It would be more than a dream. I'd have the evidence to prove
it.
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