I don’t want to talk about it. Period.

All right, so tell me: When was it decided that it’s de rigueur for chicks to discuss their “monthly friend” or “visitor”? When did it become an accepted, expected topic of conversation? And who, pray tell, was the force behind these decisions?
I want — no, I need — to know so I can submit a formal complaint to whomever is responsible. I’m sick of hearing gal pals everywhere exchanging stories of how their “boobs are tender” and how “bloated and crampy” they feel. And it’s not just gal pals, either. I’ve had women whom I barely know glance at me ruefully in rest room mirrors and announce to my reflection, “Uggh. I just got my period.”
Do I care? Do I need to know? Does anyone need to know, except, maybe, your boyfriend/husband/lover/partner/significant other, or your gynecologist if you’re due for a visit? Why does anyone else have to know?
And what am I supposed to say or do when someone graces me with this thrilling information? Am I supposed to smile and nod my head in a great show of sisterhood? Automatically whip out a tampon as a symbol of solidarity and press it into her palm with a wink? Regale her with the fascinating details of my own “cycle”?
Ladies. Please. Listen. I don’t want to hear about it. I don’t want to know about it. I don’t want to talk about it. Period. Exclamation point.