Because I am a bad person, very few things amuse me more than making men uncomfortable when I have my period. A few moments ago, at Duane Reade, I got to do just that to a clerk who clearly has no women in his life whatsoever.
Granted, I was in line holding the following items:
Anyone might be afraid. This guy, though, turned beat red and said, “Uh, sorry, do you want to go in her line?” And pointed to the female cashier next to him.
“No, that’s OK,” I said. “I’ve been doing this for awhile. I’m fine.”
“OK,” he ran the items through quickly and then leaned forward a little and asked, in a low voice, “Do you want me to double-bag them?”
“Oh, God, yes,” I said, trying to sound full of shame. “I don’t want anyone to know.”
Which is a lie, of course. Because I want EVERYONE to know.