I recently found myself frustrated while walking through Midtown. I came to the realization that this frustration did not stem from an unpleasant interaction with a tourist, abruptly stopping in the middle of the street to take a picture of a random building, but I was frustrated. And here’s why.

I was heading home from Duane Reade during rush hour and was proud that I remembered that I needed to pick up my birth control prescription before my other pack ran out. I was, however, left miffed. As I waited in line, the woman pulled out my prescription and yelled “Miss!” before whispering, “Your birth control is ready.”

This action within itself was very innocent. As a friend pointed out, pharmacists have to deal with sometimes very embarrassing medications for equally embarrassed shoppers, who I bet do not want to be waiting in a fluorescent room praying that the worker behind the counter doesn’t yell out that their ringworm medication is ready. (If you wish to know, I have had ringworm and it is not as embarrassing as its name sounds no worms are involved let’s bring down the stigma for this one while we’re at it)

Now, I do not hide the fact that I am on birth control. My mom knows, my doctors know, and anyone who I’m around at 4 p.m. will see me popping open the telltale circular container all around Manhattan.

One thing I do use birth control for, however, as many woman I know do, is monitoring and minimizing PMS systems, and herein lies my frustration; I have felt and continue to feel ashamed about my period, ever since I can remember. So this moment really perturbed me. I felt as if guys looking for products of this nature don’t feel this ashamed when buying condoms or Gold Bond (I still don’t know what that does, but keep on applying to affected areas as needed). I would at this time like to welcome mansplainers to comment. All comments should be directed to “Marit Darrow” with the subject line “no uterus and no opinion” @ Idontcare.com. (But please be nice as it is that time of month.) But what I picture is a pleased man walking into said Duane Reade and asking where the condoms are, to which an employee replies, “The condoms are over on aisle three! Magnum, Durex, Trojan, you name it! But just as a warning *whispers* if you hit the tampons, you’ve gone too far and we as Duane Reade employees are here to get you out safe.”

This might not be accurate (help me), but it’s what I assume. And as I am a woman, please just let me have this one thing. This assumption comes from a place of envy. I want to be more confident about having a period, because honestly, it’s good that I have a period. I’d be worried if I didn’t. So naturally, taking care of my body while on my period is something that is good, too. And ever since I can remember, I have felt exactly the opposite.

I probably have what can be described as the worst first period story. It involved being on a trip to Arizona (without my mom), at a family funeral (with my dad), a heavy flow, three tiny panty liners that can only be described as enough to fill overly large bag masking an otherwise lame gift, and finally a rental car with light grey upholstery. So it makes sense that my early memories of having a period are traumatizing. Buying tampons, then, just seemed to add insult to injury. So at the age of 12, I strategized with a friend on ways to minimize my mission at my local King’s Pharmacy, while also maximizing the impression that I was not there to buy tampons… even though I was only there to buy tampons. I naturally did what every girl does at some point in her menstrual years: enter store, meander around different aisles, feign interest in a certain candy bar, catch up on US Weekly (but not too long that an employee tells me I have to buy it) look around to make sure the coast is clear, check up to see if I should buy a lottery ticket that my weekly allowance doesn’t allow for, and streamline my way to the back of the store where they are held.

Here we encounter our next problem. I want Kotex extra long with regular Playtex. (And a note to anyone reading: Not playing tennis does not preclude you from using tampons.) But the boxes all look the same. Next move: Pick up any two boxes and deal with the repercussions later, then walk up to the register while maintaining the affect of “not looking like a shoplifter” which I always feel when nervously walking around a store, even though I have never shoplifted. Arrive near line, look like I’m not ready to purchase my items so the man behind me can’t sneak a peek at the goods (a word I used for feminine products), then actually get in line, pretend I’m looking at mints to buy so the male cashier doesn’t motion me down and only to put them back and finally with a sigh of relief strut down the aisle like a Victoria’s Secret model because I made it.

I remember one specific time, this ordeal had just played out, and I found myself standing across the counter from a lovely looking lady. The woman looked at me, smiled, and with the same whisper as the woman at Duane Reade asked, “Do you want me to double bag it so people won’t see?” Did I ever? I was ecstatic, probably the most ecstatic person in King’s Pharmacy ever, and definitely the most ecstatic person to be offered another one of those plastic grocery bags that every one hides behind the garbage only to be remembered when checking out at Whole Foods (I promise I did forget). (I will never show my face here again.)

And here is my problem. While this woman did save me five embarrassing blocks at the time, she reinforced the idea that buying tampons was something I should hide. And I’m not blaming her for her comment; I believe that she too has felt the same way. So while it may, like it did for me, make some young adolescent girl comfortable in the moment, and while I do believe that making young girls comfortable is important, I want to challenge the idea that hiding tampons is the way to go. I feel as if my uterus has spoken. So I have changed the way I buy them.

I now often make the same trip from Kings to my apartment, but now I walk in confidently, so confidently in fact that I have been mistaken twice now for Donald Trump after his staffers have found a new poll to fabricate. I spend my time in the tampon aisle making calculated decisions about which product works best for me, and never feel scared asking employees if I’m new to a store. And this doesn’t have to be the way everyone does it. Please feel free to write a map of every tampon aisle in every Duane Reade and mass share that shit (I’m not being sarcastic, if you do that you’re the real MVP), but I will continue to hold my place in line, brave the male cashier, and I will (really this time) bring my old, smelly, forgotten plastic bags and walk home with confidence. This does not mean I will walk around greeting neighborhood dwellers by letting it drop that my uterus is currently shedding. But honestly, if I did, as Britney said best, that’s my prerogative.

And let me finish by reminding any girls out there reading this: If a young girl of 12 years old, in the middle of Arizona, at a funeral, surrounded by family members who seem more like strangers, with a dad who really wants to help, but doesn’t quite know how, in a rental car with light grey seats, can survive what I can only describe as a potential segment on Shark Week, then you, yes you, can survive whatever mishap with your period you may have or feel. It will be OK. It will get easier, and if all else fails, remember: Even Beyoncé buys tampons, or maybe Jay-Z buys them for her. Either way, it’s great time to be alive.