In this very special blog post, Columnist Carlin is back to riff on contraception, hormones, and every college girl’s gripping fear of getting preggo.
For the last four years, I have happily been taking the same birth control pill. In the beginning it scared me (as it would any seventeen-year-old) to be putting a hormone into my body, but as I myself was a whoremone, my mother and gyno’s laws were laid down. Ever since I have had zero breakouts, no one can predict when it’s coming since I don’t get cyclically bitchy, and every four Tuesdays at 4:00 pm, I excuse myself, and know I’ll be sexually frustrated for three-and-a-half days.
This morning, for this first time since my pill in July, 2004 in Almagro, Spain, something extraordinary happened: tired from the night before, I popped open my packet to see my “Saturday” ricochet straight into a large heap of trash (primarily old Metro coffee cups and myriad Band-Aids I wear as socks while in heels). I began to panic. Though I am not, nor have I ever been, obsessive compulsive, I have just enough attention span to have remembered every morning for over four years to take the fucking thing, and have been ecstatic to have had only one pregnancy scare, which was silly since I hadn’t actually had sex in three months.
Concluding to mess with the Greater Order, I went for my “Sunday” pill, ruining the symmetry of my packet. It’s not unlike mixing up your Muppets days-of-the-week underwear from (in my case) eleventh grade, or writing your assignments or appointments in the wrong square of the calendar.
Thus let it be known that if for any reason over the next three weeks I seem emotional, sensitive, or fully transition into a chocolate-toting-bia, we can all blame Saturday.