Growing up, I always had a very large and disproportionate sense of my own dignity. I was not to be troubled by these impurities of the flesh; I buried my nose in books and ignored the swirling talk of the girls around me. When I hit puberty, I felt violated somehow, as if my body had betrayed me by being real after all, and being a major pain.

While other girls in my class talked easily about their experiences and commiserated about cramps, I was mortified by the whole experience and didn’t want to talk about it to anyone — not to parents, doctors, or friends. The whole business was just embarrassing and shouldn’t be mentioned except when absolutely necessary, I thought.

Only after years of getting older and wiser have I lost some of my adolescent self-consciousness and become comfortable telling someone when I have cramps (in case they haven’t guessed from me being doubled up on the floor). I still don’t have much tolerance for discussing sex, though. I don’t mind it when others talk, but I’d blush like mad to speak about it myself. So am I just a Puritan, or is there a place in the world for the bashful as well? Read More »