These days it starts about two days after I lay an egg and continues right the way through, leaving a trail of destruction and weepy apologies in its path. It’s bloating, it’s monster cans no one can touch because a) they hurt and b) get the hell away from me, all served with a great big jar of don’t fuck with me.
What manner of design flaw is this?
As if having to push a watermelon out of your vagootz to propagate the human race is not insanity enough, you have to suffer for 40 years for the privilege.
Often, these monster irrits are directed with laser-like beams at my partner because he’s annoying and often asking for it. An inability to read my mind, domestic blindness, chewing too loudly, you know the stuff I mean.
In fact, the audible chewing is usually the giveaway that tips me off that I’m on a one-way train to Psychoville. Usually, I can’t hear a single jot of mastication but suddenly the bursting hormones give me hyper-sensitive hearing. I can hear a bite of toast from 30 paces and don’t even think about slurping a coffee in the next room.
My poor man lives on egg shells for a solid week and although sometimes I’m sure he’d love to crack up laughing at my irrationality, he also cherishes his knackers too much to let that shit happen. So, more often than not he sweetly nods and tries to weather the storm whilst always holding a protective hand over his jewels.
The kids cop a fair whack of it too. I mean, they can be profoundly annoying when you’re not jacked to the eyeballs with crazy hormone juice. Add some not putting shoes on in a timely fashion, arsing around at dinner and incessant bickering and Mama is a ticking time bomb just waiting to yell until the neighbour’s windows rattle.
This is not a situation that is unique to me, there are squillions of monthly psychos out there. It really is amazing that there aren’t more homicides by women using the monthlies as their defense.
We make lots of jokes about PMS and stuff but what we don’t hear about that much is that it feels really shit from the inside too.
You know that realistically you’re picking at minuscule scabs turning them into sores or behaving like a raving lunatic but you simply cannot help it. The words are out of your wicked mouth before you have time to control them. PMS actually stands for Petulant Mouth Syndrome.
Also, everyone must remember that your anger and irritability is COMPLETELY JUSTIFIED. It is not merely PMS induced psychosis. It’s that PMS has taken away your coping mechanisms of ignoring all the shit that drives you wild.
Do not, I repeat, do not ever suggest that I am just PMSing. Well, not if you like your face arranged in its current shape or no spit in your food.
Take Evening Primrose, they say. It really balances your system. WTF? There is not enough Evening Primrose in the world to calm these screwball emotions. I tried mega dosage, slow release Vitamin B that cost the national debt to purchase at the fancy “wellness” store.
When did it stop being a health food shop and start being a “wellness” store, by the way? Probably when we stopped simply “calling” each other and started “reaching out.”
Anyway, I reached out to the wellness store and they told me what I needed so I thought we’d have this little issue sorted poste-haste. Alas, I did not note an iota of difference, except daily fluorescent pee that would light up a disco (or at least a darkened spin class which is as close to a nightclub as I get these days.)
So really, this is it for the next 10 or so years. Every month we batten down the hatches and pray for blood. When the river finally runs the tide turns, if you catch my drift, and everyone can breathe easy for another two weeks or so.
Luckily, I’m pretty sweet natured the rest of the time so I guess really if you’re someone who loves scary roller-coaster at theme parks, we’re going to get along fine. My body is a Wonderland.