As far as I know (and as far as I’m willing to actually research) white people invented the economic model of supply-and-demand, or at least they named it, copyrighted it, and sold it on QVC before anyone else got a chance. White people love the free market because it keeps them rich while also providing the service of keeping unsightly riff-raff (read: poor, not-white people) out of sight and out of colleges where they might learn that they’re being screwed harder than a Pamela Anderson blow up doll at the L.A. County detention center. And free market competition has provided the world with such groundbreaking innovations as the Flowbee, the pet rock, and the Toby Keith “Take Me From Behind” adult comic book series. Choice is a hallmark of the free market economy, and people love choice.
But herein lies a major problem. A couple of weeks ago, my wife was having what she calls her “period.” I had never heard of such a thing, but then again, I’m something of a self-involved asshole. I took her word that such a thing exists. The problem was, she’d forgotten to pick up what she called her “feminine products” the last time we hit the Super Walmart which covers 37 hectares on the east end of town (the part of town that used to be “The Public Park”). In any case, she asked me to go to the store and get her
some tampons and some pads. I agreed, but begrudgingly as I was in the middle of a “Small Wonder” marathon on Nickelodeon’s TV Land.
When I arrived at the store and acquired directions to the all-important tampon aisle, I walked into the most confusing moment of my life. There were tampons from all walks of life. There was a specialty
tampon for every possible moment in a woman’s life. Spotting? Try this one. Prefer a cardboard applicator to a spiky metal one? That section is further down. Are you on your period or just expecting to have one sometime in the next fortnight? That’s two different kinds of feminine products.
And don’t get me started on the pads. Light flow, medium flow, regular flow, heavy flow, extra heavy flow, and see-a-doctor flow line up next to each other like so many menstrual beacons. You can buy a pad just for use with thong underwear. Some of them can apparently fly, and they have wings. Others are land going beasts, stuck with just four legs and a tail. At every turn, I was confronted with my complete inadequacy as a husband. How was I to know what flow level my wife was experiencing? Did she need a braided string or just a regular one? Was she Poised or Always? And did she need scented or unscented? How does a person know if they need a tampon designed by a woman or one designed by a mindless, faceless automaton?
Ultimately, I grabbed a handful of lots of things (after, of course, asking a stranger who walked by to help me choose an appropriate feminine product for the woman I’ve been married to for more years than she cares to remember). When I presented my wife with the goodie bag of feminine products, she just shook her head in embarrassment—not for me, but for herself that she married such a dipshit. And as I look back on that day, I’m embarrassed for being such a dipshit. But along with that embarrassment is blind panic (I now keep a laminated note in my wallet describing the brand, common attributes, and color of the box for the products I might one day be asked again to procure). And with the blind panic is fury. Damn the tampon aisle for all its choice. I hate the free market, and I hate, as all white people must, the tampon aisle.
