My pancake this morning. I know it’s blurry and amorphous. Why don’t you just shut up?
This morning I made my oat pancake with 75% expired ingredients.
This can only mean one thing: I’m PMSing.
Since I suffer from anxiety, it makes sense that I also get PMS. I believe they’re branches of the same tree. And I’m not talking about garden variety PMS. I’m talking split personality stuff. My husband, The Rock, genuinely whimpers when he knows it’s coming. Then, he braces himself for irrational accusations, midnight discussions, crying jags and rolled taco binges.
I’m not going to make light of this. Seriously, I get it bad. Would you like a tour?
Week 1 of PMS: The cravings begin. I’ve been known to eat entire bags of El Indio chips during this time, often within a five-minute period. Vague cramping begins, bloating and self-loathing. I find I can’t do simple things without hating myself: things like rearing children, watching TV and walking.
Week 2 of PMS: I’m irritable. I cannot, simply cannot, bear the sound of The Rock’s voice. Why does he talk so much? Why won’t he shut up? Why is he bald? Then, the children: must they carry on so? Breakfast is optional, kids! And people on the street should not be on the street. They’re bothersome. Also, in cars? No. This is the week I came up with my invention: an LCD screen mounted on the rear and side windows of my car, operated via my steering wheel, where I can blast pre-programmed messages, like “You idiot!” “Idiot!” and “You! Idiot!”
Often, this is the time I’ll pick fights with The Rock over stuff like him talking, being on the street or in a car.
Week 3 of PMS: Why is there hunger in the world? Why can’t we all just get along? Why is Butterfly Kisses such a sad song? Please *sniff*, just don’t *sniff, sniff* play that song, it *ugly cry, ugly cry, ugly cry* makes me so sad to think of the little girl, and the e-e-eyelashes, and the wha-wha-wedding.
Week 4 of PMS: I’d really just not talk. I prefer to sit here in the corner and blink. I don’t have anything to say. And what I do say comes out wrong and pragmatically inappropriate. I’m just gonna stay here, no you go out, it’s OK. I just want to be alone. Or, alone together. Just please don’t talk.
Thank you for coming! I hope you enjoyed the tour. Now, please exit the ride and run like hell.
The photo surely cannot be pancakes? Really quite scary, but also a wonderfully evocative metaphor for PMS! Thanks for your brutally honest stream of consciousness. I think we can all relate (well, the women among us!) to these days and moods and it’s good to know we’re not alone. You go girl!
HAHAHAHA – your description of weeks one and two have me in hysteric fits!