It was 2006, and I had been fighting with my uterus for years. In the high school days, I usually missed two to three days a month to deal with my menstrual bullshit. But, to be clear, these were days that I actually had the okay to be outta there, notwithstanding the fact I missed about ⅔ a month of classes on average, anyway. For reals, yo. 

But in ‘06 I was in my early thirties, and just done, D-U-N. My uterus had served its purpose, twice, and that was enough for me. (And, other than the pint of peanut butter & chocolate Haagan Daz I slammed nearly every evening, I did not enjoy pregnanacy.) 

For the most part, Ima tough one – not tardigrade tough, but I gots skills. My monthly visit from Aunt Flo, though, was a different story. She a mean one, her. And she took it all out on me. And I took it all out on anyone nearby. (Also, to be fair, I’m pretty sure a water bear doesn’t deal with a fricking period, so there’s that. Mark one on the board for all the ladies who bleed for five days straight and live.) 

I spent time during those ugly days trying to alleviate my lower back pressure in a number of creative ways. Not as much time as I spent crying or yelling or eating anything and everything I could find. And when it came down to it, I didn’t want to deal with my own personal shark week every month any longer. Yank the bitch, Doctor!

So, at the ripe old age of 33, Doc Baer did just that, and I’ve never looked back. Two days afterward, I threw myself a little party to bid adieu to my life’s nemesis. I stayed in bed, my girlfriends rallied around me, and we all drank a lot of vino as I expressed thanks for the successful contract killing of my perfectly good body parts, ovaries and all. 

Well, not exactly perfectly good, after all my uterus was three times the size it was supposed to be and covered in endometriosis. It had clearly seen better days. And since the surgery? So have I.