Lesson learned.

You may not want to read this post if you're in any way squeamish about girly bits.  You've been warned.

I was drawn into the menstrual cup cult.  The cup is not a pad, or a tampon, it's a soft rubber cup that catches your... flow.  You don't have to empty it but every 8-12 hours.  Apparently, though, if you use one, you HAVE to tell everyone you use it and that it's the best thing that's ever happened to you and if you don't use one, you're a lesser being.  It's like being a runner or being vegan.  I weighed several options and ultimately ordered the Diva Cup off Amazon.  It arrived last Monday.

There is a local church which offers free babysitting every other month on Fridays for 2.5 hours free for kids with special needs and last Friday was one such day.  Drew went to drop Ace off and pick up some food and since we hadn't had a date in a couple months, I put on some sassy lingerie (a red push-up bra with a sheer skirt, basically) and decided since he'd be gone about an hour and I had nothing better to do, I'd give the Diva Cup a dry run.

I assumed the tampon position next to the tub, folded it in quarters, and put it in.  I put my leg down, did the Macarena, did the Harlem Shake, did a couple of yoga moves, and couldn't feel it.  I was pretty pleased with myself, imagining all the money I'd be saving on pads and hey, how about that carbon footprint?

As I was pulling it out, I felt it pop open.  So I texted my friend who is in The Cult, "When is it supposed to pop open?  I think it popped as I was pulling it out."  She said "You didn't have it in far enough, when it pops open you'll know it.  Otherwise, it's going to leak."  Great.  I reassumed the position, folded it in quarters, shoved it in as farrrrrrrr as I possibly could, and *pop!*  I put my leg down, did some squats, walked like Beyonce around my house, and couldn't feel it.  Again with the sense of accomplishment, the moral superiority of saving the environment, and the sense of being accepted into The Cult.

Then I went to take it out.  I had to assume the position and dig my middle finger and thumb in as far as I could to reach the tip and whoops!  They slipped off.  Reached in again, they slipped off.  Over and over again, slip slip slip.  Dried my fingers off, slip.  Squat down as far as I can go, slip.  Okay, let's sit on the toilet and try.  Slip, slip, slip.  Neither my fingernails nor my fingertips could keep a hold of it.  If I had a dollar for every time I said "son of a BITCH."

Uh oh.  The Cult is looking less attractive.

Imagining meekly asking my husband to dig it out of me, I became determined.  A sheen of sweat covered my brow as I lay down on my bed, feet on the footboard, and wiggled my butt down as far as it would go.  Remember, my boobs are in a push-up bra, so they're basically sitting on my chin as I reached down and again, slip.  Slip.  Slip.  No dice.

Tweezers.  Tweezers and a mirror.  Right?  Wrong.  Too far up, and I wasn't about to stick the tweezers in there blind.

So in an act of ultimate humiliation, I texted my poor husband.  "Honey, I know you've had to do some awful things for me throughout our 12-year marriage, but my Diva Cup is stuck and you're going to have to get it out.  I'm sorry."  Drew, committed and helpful husband that he is, texted back a simple "K."  Texted my friend in The Cult, she texted back "OMG, that has never happened to me."  GREAT.

In a last ditch effort, I posted on Twitter, "My Diva Cup is stuck and I cannot get it out."  Someone tweeted back at me "maybe you could push it out?"  PUSHING!  I hadn't thought of that.

So again, on my bed, feet on my footboard, knees hitting my shoulders, boobs on my chin, sexy lingerie akimbo, I PUSHED.  I had a c-section so I never had to push very hard during labor but I had seen ladies on TV do it so I PUSHED.  Finally, it popped out a little bit.  But, no, SLIP.  Slip.  Slip.  I uttered a whole multilingual array of cuss words and went back and got the tweezers.  I re-assumed the birthing position, PUSHED, it popped out, I hooked the tweezers on the tip, and pulled.

SLIP.  ASLP;DFKJAS;DLFKJASDF;LKJD.

Again.  I GOT IT!  Pull, pull, puuuuuulllllllll, SLIP.

Texted Drew again, almost in tears.  "Is it maybe suction-cupped inside you?"  "I think so."

ONE MORE TIME.  Birthing position.  PUSH.  Tweezers.  Pull.  Pull.  Puuuullllll.  POP.  OMG IT'S OUT. NOW I'll do my Beyonce walk.  Except, ouch, my Queen Victoria kinda hurts from the digging, so it's like Beyonce and John Wayne had a baby, and that baby was me, and I was walking with a mixture of accomplishment and meek defeat.

Tweeted "Anyone want a slightly used Diva Cup?  Because I'm never doing this again."

The Cult responded "try again!  You can do it!"

Girl, bye.

So, screw my carbon footprint.  Screw the convenience of only changing every 8-12 hours.  Screw the money-saving.  And screw The Cult.  I'm going back to pads.  They've been my good friend since I was 12 years old, and I'll stay faithful to them until I hit my golden years or I can sucker my OBGYN into giving me a hysterectomy.