I'm really not a fan of pantyliners. In fact, I sort of loathe them. I wish I could say it's because I'm incredibly eco-friendly, but in truth, I'd much rather waste tons of water washing out my poor excuse for underpants than walk around with a glorified paper napkin stuck to them.
It's not enough that we have to carry the babies, push them out of our crotch, and then go back to shoving cotton up our woo-hoos every month, but you also get to leak random fluids at the most random inconvenient times.
At first I was hoping it was just some sort of extended post partum drainage thing, but then when it didn't seem to stop, I thought maybe I was just turned on all the time - so turned on that I didn't even know it myself.
But considering I would probably turn down Michael Vartan these days, mostly for fear that I'd not be able to do my wipe, cleanse, and change routine before he tore my clothes off, I'm pretty sure I'm not leaking horny lady fluids.
And so, I'm left feeling gross and unsexy, washing baskets full of underpants, and wondering whether I am now relegated to purchasing stock in pantyliners.
I suppose there are worse things to have to wear, like Depends or a corrective back brace, but I admit that I associate pantyliners with older women, or really, my mother-in-law, who apparently wears them all the time considering how many I find (rolled up neatly in their plastic, of course) in my bathroom trashcan when she comes to visit.
So the only feasible solution that I can come up with, other than adding underwear to my weekly grocery budget is to celebrate the inauguration early.
Good girls might have pubes, but good moms of three kids with a leak go bald.