I walked through my front door this evening and glanced towards the gold mailboxes inlaid on the wall to my left. I can usually see slivers of paper product peaking through the metal slots. I have become so good at this guessing game that I can identify whether the mail inside is worth my time. Chances are it's Time Warner Cable's special offers and I'll let it sit in there for a few days. I consider it corporate punishment.
For some reason I took a second look at the small box wedged in the magazine holder. Mary Phelps? What the hell.
I dislodge the box and the contents are clear. Tampons.
What a unusual piece of promotional mail. A free sample addressed specifically to me. How the hell did Platex get my name? And why the hell have they been talking about my menstrual cycle? I think there is a period conspiracy going on here. You're all in on it, I'm sure... whispering to each other about my flow.
The puzzlement faded away to downright sympathy. My mailman must have had a tough day. Carrying around boxes of tampons for all the ladies of the world. That's farther on the humiliation spectrum than the girlfriend forced visit to the hygiene isle "just because you're out" situation. I feel sorry for any dude that's fell victim to that one. That isle is overwhelming to me and I know what all that stuff does.
Anyway, that is my story about becoming three tampons richer!
I give this guy credit for making tampon dolls and then hugging them.
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