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Inflationary Indicies for Feminine Hygiene Products

My left ovary continues its reign of fear and oppression over me and provides yet another interesting tale that will surely disgust my male readers � if there are any. This morning, I woke up to the shock and horror that is day three of one�s menstrual cycle with NO FEMININE HYGIENE PRODUCTS in the house. Dear god, I have no idea how that happened, but the need to correct the issue was great. So I hurried through the morning and drove to work planning to hit up the convenient vending machine in the ladies restroom first thing. I had even remembered to grab a few quarters out of the loose change urn to cover the expense. Only I forgot that the ladies room on my floor, complete with fainting room, was built in the 1960�s, and the going rate for a tampon or a maxi pad complete with safety pins was 10 cents. Crapolla!

My left ovary now chanting in a low, bellowing voice, �I kill you, I kill you, I kill you,� I hit the stairway like a bat out of hell. Taking the stairs two at a time, I was at the bottom in five seconds flat. I sauntered down the hallway, trying to act normal, as I made my way to the recently renovated Green Room and plugged three of my four quarters into the candy machine to produce a Snickers bar and a dime. Fearing that it had been too long since I�d woken up and since the last time my left ovary had seized violently in my abdomen causing my right eye to twitch, I decided to use the restroom on the first floor rather than making my way back up to the restroom on my own floor. Only the restrooms on the first floor had been recently updated and the machine in that restroom demanded a quarter rather than a dime.

Pausing only for a moment to calculate the inflation rate between 1960 and 2005 to see if the price increase was indeed justified, I plugged my last quarter into the machine and pulled on the little knob, begging for my tampon. The knob pulled out easily and fully indicating that the machine had accepted my quarter and had functioned properly to dispense my purchase, only nothing came out. NOOOOOO! I banged quietly on the machine and rattled it as best I could while my ovary chimed in with an �I kill you,� just for the male construction workers who had installed the machine but had been too chicken shit to load the thing with the feminine hygiene products that me and my female co-workers so desperately needed.

With only a dime and a Snickers bar in my pocket, I pondered my options. Would the machine on my floor contain the products I needed? Would I have to resort groveling in front of my female co-workers asking them to dip into their secret stashes of feminine products? What if I chose the wrong co-worker, and she used only pads or those applicator-free tree-hugger tampons? The possibilities for embarrassment were endless! I decided to take my chances back up on my floor, and I breathed a sigh of relief when the machine not only delivered the product I expected, but also when the product didn�t appear to be 45 years old.

In case you are curious, I did a quick search, and the inflation rate from 1960 to 2005 is 550.85%, so in fact, the increase in the price of a tampon from 10 cents to 25 cents is a bargain. Of course my tampon ended up costing $1 due to the necessity to purchase a Snickers bar in order to get the tampon, so my total purchase price did exceed inflation. Nonetheless, my left ovary and I are relived to have the product at any cost.

This weekend involves more traveling � this time to Salina for my cousin�s wedding shower. It should be fun, but I am not looking forward to being in a car again. I am looking forward to not being at work for a couple of days though. Not that work has been bad, but it is nice and sunny outside, and I�d like to have a bit of time to figure out what that is all about.

11:51 a.m. - March 18, 2005

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