The First Hurdle

I lay still, exhaling through pursed lips until I could wince myself up onto the sofa. I unfisted my eyes to look at my hand. My right pinky had swelled into a lopsided stack of blueberries. I'd never seen such an ugly shade to my skin. Worse yet, I couldn't move my finger at all. My mind leaped to the petrifying place any athlete or gym rat's would. "Oh no, my training!"

The Girl’s Gone Diva. DivaCup, That Is.

It wasn't just the trashing of spoiled underwear every month. It was the stained sheets. It was the stealth moves to the women's washroom at work. It was the awkward moments mid-stretch with male trainers. And it was most certainly the tiresome exercise of standing in the Shopper's Drug Mart aisle, piecing together the required assortment of regular, super, super plus and 'active' protection without hemorrhaging dollars from my spending budget.