This has been going on for a while…about once a month I’d run to the store (and the only time I run like that is when it’s an emergency) only to find that they’re out. I’ve got a strong brand preference going on here, so then I’d really hoof it to the drugstore, only to discover that Walgreen’s doesn’t share the same attachment to it that I do. CVS doesn’t, either. I’m sure of it, because Dad, Interrupted checked for me while I was hopping impatiently in the feminine hygiene aisle.

It’s a nasty dilemma, as dilemmas go: there are hundreds of alternatives, but none will do. In this instance, size really does matter.

I am, of course, referring to Johnson & Johnson o.b. tampons, specifically the ultras. There’s been a paucity of the o.b. line available over the last few months, and the ultras have been right out.

Without going even further into TMI-Land, let me just say that the ultras are a necessity, for my peace of mind and the integrity of furniture everywhere, maybe even yours. What’s not to like? No applicators, so they’re easy to haul into the ladies’ room at work, and they’re apparently are made out of super absorbent polymers, or little pieces of black holes; take your pick. All I know is that, for about twenty-four nights a year, I need, no, require that little box of utility that makes Hoover Dam look kind of inadequate.

And now I can’t find them. No one can.

I know, I know….they’re talking about nasty stuff like toxic shock syndrome and UFOs (unidentified falling objects) dropping out of uteri. I don’t care. Right now I’m making do with some bulky plastic-y applicator thingbobber that’s about three times the size and doesn’t even have the ‘ultra’ label to justify its miserable, over-sized existence.

I don’t care if they prove that o.b. ultras re-write my DNA. I don’t care if an o.b. is riding the pale pony when the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse pass through.

I don’t care if Jimmy Hoffa falls out of there, as long as he’s holding a box of o.b. ultras.

© E.S. Evans 2011