Episode 4:  ”Touch Me, I’m Sick”—Mudhoney

Sweet Young Thing Ain’t Sweet OR How I Became a Woman.

When I tell people that my mom was married six times, they assume that I grew up in a really liberal, oh-so-sexy environment.   Free love and body acceptance and what-not.  Of course, this makes me laugh.  Because our house was built on two things:

1.  Rules.  Most applied to me; few applied to my brother.  Like, I couldn’t date or wear makeup until I was 16.  I wasn’t allowed to get my driver’s license until I was 21!  Apparently all three of these things could only lead to one thing:  SEX.

Which brings us to number 2… Repression.  Lots of it, along with obsessive hygiene and many layers of clothing.

In fourth grade, my mom said she wanted to have a TALK with me.

“Oh, no,” I thought.  ”This is going to be an awkward sex talk.  I’m going to have to pretend that I didn’t learn all about this from my friends and Are You There, God…It’s Me, Margaret.”

But…sigh of relief…she just wanted to extol the virtues of atheism.  Far less painful, but possibly more overwhelming.   When she finished her sermon, I said, “I thought you were going to talk to me about sex.”   Well, actually, I stuttered over the word “sex,” because it’s a really EMBARRASSING word to say to one’s mother.

She laughed.  ”Oh, you’ll learn about that at school.”

Early in 9th grade, my mom took me to the doctor because she was convinced that there was something wrong with me.  I was still too small to wear adult-sized clothes (tres embarrassing) and obviously I was no where near puberty.  On the plus side, I had really, really nice skin.   And fortunately, I was small enough to climb inside a locker to change into my gym clothes, a manuever intended to shield my peers from the disturbing sight of my pointless training bra and little girls’ underwear (dyed black with RIT since about fifth grade).

The doctor assured my mother that everything was going to work out just fine.  Most likely my steady diet of Diet Coke and green apples was working against me.  The word “anorexia” was never mentioned, but the implications were clear.   I shrugged my bony shoulders in feigned surprise.   Real food?  How would I stay below 80 pounds?

But then I quit cheerleading and therefore, I was no longer required to “eat” lunch with a group of competitive dieters.  I would no never again have to hear that a pint of skim milk contained 80 calories.  I ate real food with real girls.   I grew six inches in a few months  and surprise…PUBERTY hit me like a freight train.

I knew that my mom was not going to handle this well.   I would probably never again be allowed to leave the house without a chaperone.  She might force me to wear two pairs of underwear to school as a low-cost chastity belt.

So I decided I would just never break the news to her.  Eventually, maybe when I was in college in another state, I might mention it offhand.  Like, “Oh my classes are going well, and by the way, I got my period about four years ago.”

My best friend Laura thought this was crazy.  ”Look at it from a financial standpoint, at least.  You don’t want to spend all your babysitting money on tampons, do you?  If you tell your mom, she’ll start buying them for you.”

So, the same day I acquired a cassette copy of Mudhoney’s Superfuzz Bigmuff from an oh-so-hip college boy (and former math team member), I decided to break the news to my mom.

She was sitting at the table, writing out checks for bills.  Perfect!  She might be too distracted with calculations and postage stamps to really be upset.  I slid into the chair across from her,  estimating that the distance would give me enough time to run away if this shocking announcement drove her to violence.

“Well, you might as well know that I got my period…a few months ago.”

She looked up from her work.  Silence.  More silence.

And then…big sigh.  ”Well, I guess this is where all the trouble begins…”  She laid her head on the pile of envelopes and papers.

I tried to play it cool.  ”Yeah, you’re telling me.”  This was an attempt at humor and it was not appreciated.

Further silence.

“Since I guess you’re probably not going to take me shopping for a new outfit or out for a celebratory sundae, do you mind if I drink a glass of wine?”

She looked up.  ”Pour one for me, too.”

I filled two coffee mugs with sickly sweet lady wine.

I took mine to my bedroom, where I listened to Mudhoney on repeat for several hours, while fantasizing about moving to the Pacific Northwest.  Surely nobody was repressed there!

I like to think that the world is filled with thirtysomething women who associate Mudhoney with menstruation.

It just seems logical to me.