I think, as women, we confound the men in our lives during that “special” week every month. During PMS, our significant other can’t do anything right, say anything right, or wear the right facial expression. Their poor minds must just spin with questions. “Why is she standing in the bathroom, screaming and crying because her hair won’t do what she wants it to?” “Why is there a hairbrush flying across the room toward my head for saying her hair looks fine?” “Why is she surprised her jeans won’t zip when she just ate an entire king size Hershey bar?”
This PMS thing is a new concept to me. For many years, I haven’t been on what one would call “a schedule.” I’ve talked before about my fertility issues, and have only recently gotten on medication that ensures that, like clockwork, I become a raging hormonal crazy woman one week every month. (Note: I hear my husband laughing, because he’s thinking about the crazy woman I am during the other three weeks.)
While I’m grateful that my medication is working, I’m a little concerned that I haven’t learned to cope with PMS like other women my age. I haven’t had as much experience as they have, and I tend to go absolutely insane. So, I figured I would impart my new-found knowledge to our men. Especially mine, as he’s never had to deal with this before. He has no idea what he’s coming home to. *grin*
PMS makes us do things we wouldn’t normally dream of doing. I woke up this morning, bright and early. And then went back to bed two hours later. It’s been up and down all day here. I look at everything that needs to be done for my move, and immediately feel overwhelmed and hide under the covers. I doesn’t matter that 99% of my stuff is packed. The 1% is mocking me.
The craving for food is what hits me the worst. The rest of the month, I could easily live without chocolate and ice cream. But this afternoon I needed ice cream. It wasn’t a choice. I threw on my fat jeans and a sweatshirt, went out in the cold and rain, and headed to Hell-mart on a Sunday. Normally, I wouldn’t dream of going there on Sunday. But the call of junk food was so strong that I parked and nearly sprinted to the ice cream aisle. Then I grabbed a slab of chocolate cake from the bakery, some milk, and headed for the checkout.
This chocolate thing is something I just don’t understand! I am a healthy eater. I stay awake from pork, white bread, and potatoes. I never, EVER eat candy bars. I just don’t see the appeal. But for this week, every month, it’s like my hormones take control of my body. I walk like a zombie around Walmart, mindlessly grabbing whatever my crazy alter ego is craving at the moment. Then, when the week is over, I find the things I’ve bought and can’t even remember putting them in my basket. It’s a truly out of body experience. Many candy bars have made it home that way and gotten thrown away because they never get eaten.
I can, however, live with the cravings. Despite chowing down, I never put on any weight that my body doesn’t take off immediately. What really gets me are the mood swings. For example, I drove back from the store this afternoon to find that, in the 20 minutes I had been gone, some asshole had taken my parking spot. I have a favorite spot that I park in here that’s closest to my door. I’m pretty possessive about it, just because my apartment is so oddly situated and the parking lot is pretty poorly lit. It’s just a safety issue for me, not an assigned parking space thing.
So I see this awful white car in MY parking spot, and I am all of a sudden overwhelmed by the urge to run headlong into it. And in my mind, I’m weighing the pros and cons of ramming this car and sending it down the hill. I mean, I’m insured. But thankfully, the second I thought that, the line from 10 Things I Hate About You came into my head: “My insurance does NOT cover PMS!” And I grumbled and parked way at the other end of the lot. And trudged all the way to my apartment, trying hard not to run over and smash anyone’s windshield. I’m still stewing over it.
Today’s lesson: I guess what I would tell the men in our life is to please be patient. We are just as frustrated by our crazy behavior as you are, if not more. We can’t control it, we aren’t right in the head, and while we’re aware of it, there is absolutely nothing we can do. Keep your distance, and slide us some chocolate under the bathroom door if we’re having a bad hair day.