Last week, after meeting a younger colleague and imparting her with my particular brand of sage advice, I was feeling pretty chuffed with myself. As I walked with my head held high, a woman on the street lightly grabbed my arm, and quickly brought that feeling to a screeching halt.

“Sweetie, you have a big, red stain on your skirt,” she said with eyes that were both compassionate and ashamed—lids tilting down, but the corners curled up on the side so I could see the softness of her skin as it crowed.

“It might be your period.”

No shit, Sherlock. It most definitely is my period, which has become more like a completely erratic series of viscous tsunamis, emerging out of my body at utterly random intervals over the course of the first three to four days than any period I’ve ever known. If you were curious, my period, for the last few cycles, lasts for around ten days. My cycle has dropped down to twenty-five or fewer days each go. I did the math. This means that forty percent of my cycle i…