On PMS

There comes a time, in every woman’s monthly cycle, when all things that were at one time sane and balanced are suddenly out of proportion and irrational. Or maybe it’s just me. Either way, I find myself looking in the mirror and wondering how it is that I can go so quickly from being on top of the world and sure of who I am, to a sniveling pile of insecure crabbiness. I know that the thoughts I think are not rational, and that in a day or two all will be well, and I will be responding to life appropriately, but right now: holy wicked tantrums batman! Even the simplest remark enters my hormone infused brain and twists itself into a stabbing insult. “Are you feeling ok?” From an innocent bystander becomes “You look like absolute hell – who beat you with an ugly stick and slathered 20 lbs of cellulite on your thighs?” in my head. Every little less than perfect event at home becomes a cataclysm of massive proportions: “What do you mean the dog just got into the garbage and it’s no big deal? Don’t you know we all could have gotten salmonella and DIED!!!! IDIOT!!” My poor kids are transformed from innocent, ignorant blunderers to intentional deviants that I can’t seem to punish harshly enough. For now I recommend to them that they hide out of sight. But make sure the garbage is picked up first. I hate how out of control I feel. I look at someone and fantasize about breaking their jaw with my fist simply because they won’t stop talking. Someone who certainly doesn’t deserve to be punched, regardless of how boring or stupid they are. Something I am not a good judge of at this point in time. Over the years I have learned that my best MO during this time is to avoid encounters, keep my mouth shut, and turn off my brain as much as possible. Tune out of conversations to prevent uber-snotty responses, hoping I place a non-committal nod or uh-huh semi-appropriately. As it stands I am staring at my geography weather and climate homework and taking it very personally. Luckily the 1 hour and 40 minute class allows me ample opportunity to watch the professor prattle on while I am off in nowhere land completely missing the reasons for convergent lifting and the difference between a cold and an occluded front. His plaid shirt and navy slacks are especially offensive to me today. For no apparent reason. And I am really angry that he needs me to reiterate to him the principal characteristics of monsoonal circulation in essay format. Doesn’t he already know this crap? So my day goes on, resisting the urge to shoot spit-wads at the skeleton women discussing their careers as personal trainers across the room, or draw angry epithets on the white board for my teacher to find later. I have learned, more so in the times that I am not a hormonal Frankenstein, that the ache in my soul right now is impossible for any well-meaning boy to soothe. He will inevitably screw up and his misconstrued means of helping me out of my emotional slump will be the undoing of any kind of relationship. To the poor bastard that wants to fix me: don’t. No, that’s not where it’s at, my remedy. It’s in the great funky song that a friend from far away dedicates to me when I say help. It’s in the giggling of my kids behind my back that reminds me that just because today feels like a total parental *^&* up, they will survive and I might have a chance to redeem myself over the next 28 days. My cure for the lady blues is in turning the harshly rejected advice of the idiot man who thought he could help into a challenge to disprove. Don’t tell me I lack style because I am insecure today. Not only do you risk your very life, but you become solely responsible for either an ill-afforded shopping spree or a complete rebellion to grooming aesthetic altogether. (You wanna see frumpy? I will show you frumpy. In your face.) So what if I wore my holiest sweats to class? Yes I am fat today, and yes this is a candy bar in my hand. Bite me. I bite back. I will drink all of this chocolate milk and claim it as the cure for my anemia. I dare you to argue with me. And if you say anything about my hair I will shave it off. Then see how you like it. Good lord. If I survive this month it will be a miracle. And it’s a dang good thing that kids are made out of rubber.