The blood bowl, a review

I’m very susceptible to “family planning” aisle drugstore impulse purchases, so it was really only a matter of time before I tried out the DivaCup.

An insufferable hippie, I’ve never liked the idea of all the plastic packaging waste tampons produce or their shady chemical contents… or the sometimes feeling that they’re pulling your soul out along with them, for that matter. A tad intimidated but intrigued by the prospect of a better period, I decided to give the cup a chance. Here’s how the next four days went down:

Saturday, 10:26 a.m. – My period starts, smack dab in the middle of my long-planned overnighter with my three best friends (of course). I hit Walgreens after brunch, and upon surveying the sleek, well-branded box, am immediately confronted with my first menstrual cup conundrum: These things come in sizes?

In fact, the cups are available in three sizes, model 0 (for those 18 years old and younger who haven’t had children), model 1 (for 19- to 30-year-old women with a medium flow and/or have had children), and model 2 (for 30-plus’ers with a heavier flow and/or have had children). I buy the model 2 and tamp down the weird insecurity that’s suddenly bubbled up about what this might say about the size of my vagina.

Once home, I boil the cup per the instruction booklet, thinking to myself that this thing is already more work than I would like. I sit down to read the remainder of the booklet, and to get comfortable with the insertion techniques. There seem to be a couple schools of thought regarding the best way to insert the cup, and after washing my hands and undergoing a little trial and error, I was able to insert it by squatting a smidge, and folding its squishy rubber form inward twice, so it resembled a small U tucked inside a larger U. The key here is to make sure you rotate the cup a little once it’s in place, creating a vacuum to prevent any leakage.

“My first thought is how comfortable the cup is. My second is that it looks like a massacre has occurred, and I’m the obvious person of interest.”

My first thought is how comfortable the cup is. My second is that it looks like a massacre has occurred, and I’m the obvious person of interest. I’m not going to lie — there’s a bit of a mess involved, given the lack of an applicator. I wash my hands again… for much longer, this time.

Twelve hours of use, the booklet says. We’ll see. I’m mildly hungover and on day one of my period, so the chances of a 12-hour sleep are relatively high. Might as well immediately test the limits of this innovation, I think, and fall asleep at 9:30.

Sunday, 4:32 a.m. – OHSHITISITLEAKING?! I leap out of bed convinced we’ll be needing a new mattress and speed waddle to the bathroom. Code Red: False alarm. All is well.

Sunday, 9:08 a.m. – When morning comes, I tug on the “stem” that juts out from the bottom of the cup. Nothing. I tug harder, and feel the slow panic set in. Why won’t it come out?! I retrieve the booklet I hastily threw in the trash last night (“I mean…how hard could it be?”) and learn that one must break the suction before removal is possible.

It’s a strange world we live in, I remind myself.

The cup held true to its claim, though, holding up for a full 12 hours without my feeling it or suffering any leaks.

There is only one drawback I’ve noted about the cup so far, and that’s the long list of cleansing agents you absolutely can not use to clean it, and you’ll want to clean it upon every removal. You can’t use antibacterial soap. You can’t use soap that contains any oils. You can’t use disinfecting solution, rubbing alcohol, peroxide, vinegar. Essentially, you can only use a mild, non-antibacterial cleanser, so I washed both the cup and my hands with my trusty CeraVe, which got the job done.

The rest of the day at home and running errands goes without incident. I consider donating my leftover tampons to someone less enlightened, but think better of it. Let’s see how Monday goes.

Monday, 3:54 p.m. – Oh, ok. Now I see. I see the issue now. “How exactly does one wash her menstrual cup when she shares a sink space with all the respectable lady bathroom-goers at her place of employ?” you might ask. Not easily, is my answer. I realize this during a mid-day bathroom break, when I embark on a removal after roughly nine hours of use.

At this point I also realize I’d neglected to bring the CeraVe with me, so I wait until the shoes previously occupying the stall beside me disappear from view and dash to the sink for a speedy scrub using the God-knows-what in the soap dispenser. This does not feel like behavior befitting a Diva, I think.

Tuesday, 5:10 a.m. – I wake up with the roosters for an 8:20 a.m. flight to Phoenix for work. Settling into what I’ve now come to think of as Crouching Tiger, Hidden Vulva to place the cup, I wonder what the TSA operators stationed at the millimeter wave imaging monitor are going to make of my body scan. Will they think the cup is a secret compartment to aid in the smuggling of drugs? Will they “randomly select” me for a search? Will I be ushered into one of those airport jail interrogation rooms and forced to explain myself? These are all real thoughts I have.

None of this inanity happens, of course. Through the rush of early morning Atlanta traffic, airport security checkpoints, boarding and disembarking the plane, an Uber ride, hotel check-in and an early dinner with coworkers, I pushed the 12-hour threshold, and the cup held up its end of the bargain.

All things considered, 10/10 would menstruate.