As an undergrad I had a Chicana Literature professor who conceptualized of her menstrual cycle as nothing less than a goddess, a direct connection to Mother Earth herself. Each month she and her friends lifted glasses of ruby red wine in a toast to the lunar forces at work in their wombs. (If you can't figure out how that information would possibly come out in a lecture, you have never taken a feminist literature course.)
My cycle is no lunar goddess nor kindly Aunt Flo. I have the laziest, bitchiest menstrual cycle on God's green earth. She's a teenager arrested in the snottiest part of her development. Apparently quite busy with the demands of sleeping late and pretending I don't exist, she half-heartedly tosses off a period when she feels like it. Five, six , seven weeks--why do I have to be such a bitch all the time and expect her to do things on a schedule?
I periodically throw some progesterone at her lazy ass to see if I can rouse her long enough to clean her room already. Sometimes she'll throw her clothes in the closet for a day with an eye-rolling, "Are you happy now?" Other times it's all slamming doors and "I HATE YOU!" and I'm knocked down for a morning with back pain from hell.
The wannabe of every queen bee she meets, she's eventually tagged along with the cycle of every female roommate I've ever had. Several times she has taken off backingpacking in Europe to find herself or some such shit, returning a year or so later just the same as before.
I've always been a late bloomer, so for years I figured I'd just wait it out. Give her some space and surely she'd grow up one day into a mature, responsible young woman, right? I'm beginning to think she may be a lost cause.